Seasonal Affection Disorder
by StrangerThanYouDreamtIt
Summary: On Christmas Eve, JJ asks Emily to join her on a double date. But does she realize just what she's asking of her?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This is written from Emily's POV, and is set well before the Doyle/Pentagon storylines. I think that's all you need to know.

I've heard it's bad luck to listen to Christmas songs when it isn't Christmas – hopefully the same doesn't apply to writing Christmas stories when it isn't Christmas otherwise I'm screwed on both accounts. ;) enjoy.

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**Chapter One**

_**Three days before Christmas:**_

I try, every year. Believe me, I try.

I buy a tree; I decorate it with gusto. I even extend my efforts to foreign traditions and purchase Christmas Crackers. The snap makes me jump, and the prize inside is never worth the frayed nerves caused by such an, albeit expected, shock, but I buy them nonetheless. I act enthusiastic about Garcia's annual 'Seasonal Movie Night', and I hang stockings for every member of the team on December 1st, and spend the next month filling them with treats and goodies in anticipation of the big day.

I _try_.

And yet the universe is still mocking me.

She's been following me around for twelve minutes now, jumping from reason to reason as to why it is that I just _have_ to say yes. The best was that I have a closet full of incredible outfits that the job never allows me the opportunity to wear - I have to hand it to the girl: she's persistent.

Despite how much it feels like it, I know she isn't simply on a mission to drive me crazy. I know she has trust issues, stemmed very justifiably from what it is that we do and see every day. But a _double date_? On Christmas Eve, no less. I can't think of anything worse I'd like to be doing on Christmas Eve.

Not that she knows that. It's not exactly common knowledge that beneath all of that tinsel and festivity and immaculately wrapped gifts, I despise Christmas. And the only thing I despise more than Christmas, is dating around Christmas. Matter of fact, my life would be perfect if I could get away with only doing relationships and/or affection on a season by season basis – like theme parks. Very few theme parks are open during the winter, and why is that? Because winter is _merciless_, and _cruel_, and _conniving_. Theme parks know this, they're not dumb. Why can't my heart know this?

I wasn't born feeling this way, of course, and, surprisingly, it has nothing at all to do with my mother's incessant absence growing up. I think, once upon a time, I even _enjoyed_ the holidays and freely drank up all of that Christmas Spirit – whatever that is. But the third time truly is the charm. There's only so many times that you can have your heart ripped out and handed back to you with a pretty little bow on Christmas Day before you begin associating tragedy with joy; and somewhere between the elf ears on the nightstand, the skimpy Santa outfit at the foot of the bed, and the Christmas Spirit that my girlfriend was getting into _without_ me, I found my hatred.

Naturally, that hatred manifested into an over-exaggerated effort to seem like I'm feeling jolly. I pull it off, and I pull it off well. Which probably _partially_ justifies her request, but I don't think she truly realizes just what it is that she's asking of me – mostly because it's off-season, and that theme park is closed until Spring. Perhaps, never to be opened.

"_No_." I'm already walking away but I know she's following me. She's not saying anything, and she doesn't exactly have cinderblocks for feet, but I can feel her enthusiasm boring into my back. And as I stop, turn slowly to find her grinning at me, I jump to what should have been my first question. "What about Morgan and Garcia? They're a _couple_." I place extra emphasis on that word and I know she gets the hidden question: _why weren't they your first choice?_

"Oh come on, Em." She pouts. "You know they'd just tease me about it for months."

My sharply raised eyebrow questions the validity of that statement. What she really meant to say was, "You need to get out more. I never see you with anyone. It's the holidays, what a perfect time!" What is her obsession with everyone pairing off and living happily ever after?

"Pleaaase." She whines, standing on her tiptoes and moving her head in time with the gaze that I'm purposely shifting. No one would ever believe she's a thirty-four year old, level-headed, driven, professional. No one. "_Please_."

God, she's adorable. I take the weakness I have for her out on the soft flesh on the inside of my lip and remind myself: _the park is closed!_

Apparently realizing she's getting nowhere, she falls back on her heels and frowns. "Where's your Christmas Spirit, Em? I know it's in there somewhere."

Oh, did I forget to mention… In a stark contrast to me, she's _obsessed_ with Christmas. It surprised me at first, my natural assumption that Garcia would be the one to avoid on this not-so joyous holiday. But nope. That ultimate fangirl award goes to the tiny blonde in front of me, the one now offering me her best bright and cheerful, puppy dog eyes. Damn those eyes.

"_Okay_." I only know I've agreed when she flings her arms around my neck, before bouncing away with a satisfied smirk on her face – one that tells me she knew all along that she was going to win. One that tells me she's heading out to utilize her lunch break for more festive and likely date-related means.

How can she love this holiday so damn much? No, scratch that. How can she love mixing this holiday and _love_ so damn much? That's a recipe for disaster if ever I knew one, and I can't help but call her back.

"Yep?" She turns sharply, her fingers tapping against the glass door that she grabbed to stunt her pace.

"What's the deal with you and Christmas?" I purposely leave out the latter part of my query – I don't think she needs more reason to find interest in my romantic life, or lack thereof.

She shrugs like it's obvious. "It's the only time of year that everyone stops and reflects and I guess it changes even the most stubborn of people. It makes them softer, more open." A smile makes its presence known only in her eyes and when she speaks again, it's more smoothly. "It's nice to see the more open, softer side of people."

She winks at me before she turns away and disappears down the corridor, and I can't work out if she's trying to reduce the weight of her statement, or being purposely implicative towards me. Probably both - she certainly got what she wanted, after all.

I guess I need to find a date outfit. What screams: _I'm totally present and willing to play along, but I don't want to be here at all_?

**CM-CM-CM**

_**Christmas Eve:**_

In years past, I've found myself willing the month of December to storm by. Somewhat of a perhaps-I-can-blink-and-miss-it type mentality. It never has, of course – until this year. The past three days skipped by in a heartbeat. Consequently – along with placing far too much effort into my attire for a date that I don't even want to attend - I've spent every minute of the past sixty willing my mother to coerce me into some pretentious, impromptu gala, just so I can justifiably let JJ down. That's pretty much the only way I see myself getting out of this – I don't know of anyone on the planet brave enough to say no to the Ambassador.

It's funny how my supposed owning of many incredible outfits was one of JJ's preliminary arguments in her attempts to get me to acquiesce, because the growing pile of shirts and dresses and jeans and jackets and camisoles strewn across my bed certainly doesn't share that rationale. I have though – in my apparent quest to look just _incredible_ – learnt that I own more pantsuits than a lawyer, and that I need to get better at parting with quarter-century old t-shirts.

The arguably unnecessary attention I'm paying to my appearance is the reason I'm not at all focused when I answer the phone vibrating beside me; and Morgan's words barely register in between berating myself for the carbs I consumed for lunch that have left my stomach with a little more curve than usual, and simultaneously shaking my head at myself for the fact that I'm even concerned about that. I've never cared so much about my appearance in my life, and my _whole_ _narrative_ thus far has been about appearances. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what is different about this, but I banish that explanation as soon as it emerges and perch myself on the end of my indecision-laden bed with a frustrated bounce. "What's up, Morgan?"

"…Are you home?"

There are blatant nerves in his voice that naturally rub off on me. "Uh… yes?"

"Which means you're about twenty minutes from Union Station?"

"Yes, Derek." I reply with a mildly condescending chuckle. "I'm also about eighteen minutes from the Capitol building and twelve from our President's humble abode. Is there a reason for your interest or are you just conducting a survey?" He doesn't seem to want to share in my satirical attempts at lightening the mood, which instantly removes my smile and causes me to physically lean forward, as though I'm reaching for him. "Morgan… What's wrong?"

"Nothing wrong…" He replies cryptically and quietly, and then sighs, seemingly in frustration at himself. "Will you meet me? At that little café across the street from Union Station?"

I check my watch – I'm supposed to be meeting JJ in two hours. With the day it is ensuring that downtown traffic is going to be more unbearable than usual, I come to the realization that what I'm wearing right now is what I'll be heading to my dreaded date in. Something that I'm mildly grateful for when I consider the alternative of spending the next ninety minutes in front of the mirror perfecting my best teenage-girl impression.

Besides that – and _obviously_ more important - he sounds terrified. There's very little that shakes Derek Morgan, which makes my decision for me. Realizing it'll likely take less time to walk, I respond, "It'll probably take me more than twenty minutes but I'll be there."

He has his back to me when I arrive, and the silver, well-tailored suit he's donning leaves me questioning this spur-of-the-moment invite only slightly more than the way he's shifting uncomfortably in his seat and seemingly uttering silent words to himself. I'm certain he's repeating the same thing over and over again, and yet his face keeps changing. So far, in the thirty seconds I've been watching him, he's jumped from petrified, to regimentally serious, to creepily joyous. He looks as though he's practicing his speech for the 'Notable Psychopath Awards', but when he turns and notices me approaching, he stands to his feet and settles on one emotion: relief. Something tells me I'm either about to have to talk him down, or build him up – I'm just unsure which.

"Emily." His posture is solid and his voice breathy. "I ordered you a peppermint mocha. I think that's what you drink." He frowns and gestures towards the counter behind us. "I could be wrong, but if I am just tell me and I'll go grab something different."

I silently throw out my palms. Truthfully, no part of my mind is certain what to do with this sudden shift in his personality – I feel like he's about to ask me out on a date, and I think I have enough of those for one winter. "What's the deal? You look like you're about to have a panic attack."

"It's entirely possible." He sighs and returns to his seat as I pull up a chair opposite him. His palms rest flat against the table as he seemingly fumbles through his mind for the right words. "Well you see, I have a question…"

I raise my eyebrow. "Is this the part where you tell I'm irresistible and beg me to ride off into the sunset with you?" I lower my gaze and my voice playfully. "Cos I gotta tell you Morgan, I really, _really_ like women. I think it might cause us a fair few issues later in our unlikely love story."

"I _wish_." He scoffs, clearly not taking the calm I'd intended from my banter. "Telling a lesbian I'm madly in love with her would probably be considerably easier than this."

He lifts his unreadable, dark eyes to mine and, after a moment, reaches into his pocket and produces a brown, leather box; opens it and slides it across the table. The diamond is large enough to be impressive, but small enough to remain modest, and is sat in a band of what I'm certain is platinum.

His nerves, of course, now make a whole world of sense, but when he speaks again, his voice seems unnaturally calm when I consider just how erratic it had been moments ago. "I need your opinion, Em… I'm going to ask Penelope to marry me."

It's funny, I'd been expecting this revelation for months – even have a few bets going with Rossi which now mean I'm the proud owner of a 25 year old bottle of Chivas - and yet the truly overjoyed smile that emerges on my face would say it came as a total shock. Truthfully, for me, it's one of those moments in which I get to live vicariously through another person – I'm never going to be in the nervous, jittery, joyous state that he's in, but I get to feel it and the love that he holds and openly exudes for Garcia as if it's me who's about to propose.

"Really, really?"

He grins, far more at ease now and actually mildly astonished – like he can finally see the good rather than the terrifying possibilities in this moment now that he's shared it with someone – and rubs his palm against the back of his neck. "Yeah." He nods. "Really, really."

"Oh my god, I'm so _happy_ for you." I eagerly lean forward to study the ring, surprised by my own enthusiasm and investment in this fairytale. I didn't know I had it in me. "So what's the plan? How are you going to do it?"

"I'm taking her to the restaurant where we had our first date." He looks uncertain again, like he's questioning his creativity. "I spent months deliberating just how to do it, attempting to come up with something elaborate and original. But apparently I'm not an elaborate and original kinda guy."

"I've heard the way you two talk to each other…" I respond distractedly, my eyes still captivated by the ring. "You're the most original sweet-talker I know. Which leads me to my next question." I snap the leather box closed and look back to him. "The speech… What are you going to say?"

"Well I was thinking…" He straightens his shoulders and I can't help but smile. "Penelope, I love you. You've got a big heart, and a voluptuous booty, and I can't imagine anyone else on the planet that I'd like to make beautiful, mixed-race babies with. Will you marry me?"

I pause for a second, waiting for him to tell me he's joking or at the very least imply it, but all I find in his eyes is the return of his untypically anxious gaze and I have to stave off my chuckle. "I think I'd lay off on the reference to the racial divide between the two of you, and possibly also what I assume to be _praise_ of her voluptuous booty. Maybe go for a little less sex too." I ponder my advice for a moment before I realize one glaring point: it is _Garcia_ he's proposing to. "Actually-" I shake my head. "-scratch that. It's perfect. If anything, add _more_ sex."

"Phew." He mock wipes sweat from his brow and relaxes his shoulders. "I thought I was going to have to go back to the drawing board, and it took me three weeks to come up with that."

I toss a fond smile his way. I'm not sure anyone realizes, in amongst the player reputation that he both earned and encouraged, just how beautifully sweet this guy is – aside from Garcia, of course. I watched him dance around her for two years before he finally admitted that those playful quips and more than mildly risqué pet names weren't just friendly banter, and since then the two of them have been sickeningly inseparable. I honestly never imagined that their flirtatious ways could get more colorful - I was wrong. So very wrong. I'm beginning to think the not-so heeded fraternization rules were created for them, not Rossi.

"What about you? You're not getting any younger, ya know." Her smirks and sips his drink, seemingly back to his old, chilled, _smartass_ self, before dropping the bomb I'm not expecting. "When are you going to propose to JJ?"

I choke helplessly on my drink. "When am I- _what_?"

He shrugs. "I heard the two of you are going on a date tonight."

"We're not going on a _date_, Morgan." I sigh – I'd almost forgotten about that small detail. "I'm helping her out. She's into one of the detectives from our New Orleans case a few weeks ago, and this is the first time she would have seen him since then. I guess I'm going as a safety net of sorts."

"Yeah, that's the version I heard too." He watches me with a curious smile, like he's waiting for me to say something else, before he finally decides to have mercy. "I'm just teasing, Em. But as your best friend… I feel it's my duty to remind you of your _SAD_ issues."

"My _what_?"

"SAD. Seasonal _affection_ disorder." He grins, clearly proud of himself for that creative little title for my romantic defects. "Ya know, like seasonal affective disorder, but more catered to your complicated persona."

"That's cute." I joke without missing a beat, attempting to relieve how intensely exposed I feel. I'd praise him for his profiling skills if I wasn't so thoroughly engrossed in trying to figure out where I went wrong in my efforts to seem like I'm madly in love with Christmas. Did I honestly think no one saw through my façade?

"I'm serious, Em." He's frowning now, and I can tell he's conflicted. He's JJ's friend too, and I know it's difficult for him to be, in a roundabout way, warning me away from her. It's not like she's a manipulative siren who enjoys toying with people's hearts - far from it. We both know that. But we both, apparently, also know just how invested I already am in JJ, even if I'd never directly admit such a thing.

There are parts of my heart that no one will ever occupy in the way she does. I simultaneously panicked over and accepted that a long time ago. But I'm not a fool: I know placing stock into the affections of a straight girl is a very good way to get your heart broken. So I never have. JJ is my friend, a very important friend… a very important friend who I care deeply enough for to get passed my schoolgirl crush and be objective about her happiness. And if the anxious way in which she reminded me earlier as I left work- "Don't forget about tonight." –is anything to go by, this guy is perfect for her.

"Morgan." I take his hand and decide not to insult his intelligence with an array of contradictions. "I am entirely capable of being attracted to someone and leaving it at that. JJ is straight, and very much off limits – I _know_ that." He looks at me like he's struggling, like there's something he's not saying, but the shrill ringing of his phone – and the consequent onslaught of anger that emanates from it when he answers the call – tells me our conversation is over. "She pissed?"

"I was supposed to pick her up thirty minutes ago." He grimaces, and slips his phone along with the ring back into his pocket.

"Well I'm sure the reasoning for your tardiness will ease her annoyance." I smile genuinely as he stands to his feet and straightens up his jacket. "Good luck, Derek. Your speech is beautiful, the ring is beautiful, and you are beautiful. She couldn't possibly turn you down."

"Thanks, princess." He smiles and then presses a lingering kiss to my head. "Good luck with your evening, and remember what I said."

I watch him leave before cradling my coffee between my palms and studying the swirls of creamer unstirred on top like I'm reading my tea leaves and searching for inspiration.

Truthfully, I'm stalling. What are the chances that I can hide out in this coffee shop for the next four hours and just claim amnesia? Parts of me feel like I'm ignoring instinct in chaperoning this date tonight. Parts of me are yelling that those good intentions I have towards JJ's happiness and the efforts I'm extending to guarantee that fairytale runs smoothly, are exactly what are going to ensure that every year from this point will see me more as the Grinch than a festive phony.

Here's the thing: similar to not placing much stock into the affections of a straight girl, I also no longer place much stock into love. Those emotions reside within an unpredictable and contradictory part of the mind that makes me long for the simplicity of the brain of a killer. Their motives – however often insane – are typically definitive and their methods tend to stay true. Love… Well, that's a whole other monster entirely. Its only predictable quality is that it's unpredictable. If physically represented as an UNSUB, the BAU would have absolutely no chance of tracking it down; no textbooks to guide them, and no past experience to indicate probable actions and/or outcomes. Its rules bend and meander through logic in a way that never ceases to perplex me, and its ability to turn someone so level-headed and composed into a mess of broken thoughts and abandoned convictions and damaged confidence is _astounding_.

No… give me serial killers over love any day.

But as the leaves start to fall, and the temperature drops, and the darkness begins to draw in earlier in the day, the mildly affectionate part of my persona slips into an intense state of sentimentality that I don't typically possess – and I can't deny that, in recent years, that unnatural affection has directed itself towards JJ. I find myself wanting to lace my fingers with hers as we stroll through a festively decorated DC, and slip my arms around her waist solely to shield her from the cold as we watch the fireworks from Rossi's lawn on New Year's Eve. It makes me want lazy Sundays making love beneath sheets, movie nights curled up on the couch playing idly with silken hair, and damn kisses beneath mistletoe. Most importantly – and more detrimentally – it makes me want to take my innate tendency to wear my heart as far from my sleeve as possible, and pour that heart into words and admissions that may – _may_ – just win me the woman of my dreams. It makes me want to take a leap into the unknown. It makes me want to chase fairytales and ideals that just _don't_ exist.

It makes me miss the incomparable warmth that comes with simple human affection and interaction. Not necessarily the sexual kind, but the blissfully intimate kind. It makes me miss being human. _God_, I miss being human.

The season to be jolly is a dangerous time of year…

I may have just made it deadly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** If any of this chapter seems awkward, it is supposed to. Because, let's be honest, what about this scenario _wouldn't_ be awkward?

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**Chapter Two**

Someone once told me that nothing ever winds up as bad as you concoct it in your mind, that fear likes to contrive the worst case scenario in our heads but it almost never plays out that way. It makes sense and had, actually, gotten me beyond paralyzing nerves in many situations. But the text message that I only realize I have when I approach the restaurant – and a _guilty_ looking blonde - leaves me wanting to call bullshit on that notion.

It had been tough, but after much deliberation on the fifteen minute stroll over here, I'd found the silver lining in my kind gesture - in the form of the possibility of getting laid. You can't fall in love in one night, and bringing a relative stranger to orgasm just might ease the shrill sound of midnight marking this apparently wondrous, twenty-fifth day. Tacky? Probably. But my currently preoccupied conscience is okay with that.

Well, it was… until I read the message, looked up to meet the adorably apologetic eyes of my blonde friend, and lost that silver lining somewhere in the fact that Stacey – Stacey, apparently male and _not_ female, Stacey – has a penis.

"I'm sorry." She grimaces. "I didn't know until Will called and said something to the effect of, _Stacey is looking forward to it. He has a thing for brunettes_."

I haven't said one word, but I know she's reading every intricacy in my stare – I _want_ her to. She owes me big time for this.

"I understand if you want to leave."

I consider it, I really do. I should be grateful that the possibility of gaining any kind of affection only to have it stomped on was erased right along with Stacey's femininity but… _really_? I'm certain some deity is currently having a good laugh at my expense. How did I ever manage to wind up on a date with a _guy_ while, directly in my presence, the woman who somehow managed to worm her way into my fortress of a heart offers up her own heart to some Southern detective? Perhaps those deities have a point. It is kind of, tragically, funny. Kind of.

The inside of my lip takes a beating as I fix my eyes on the sidewalk and consider my options: I can leave right now, ruin JJ's night, and probably never have her say a bad word about it – perhaps this is the catalyst strong enough to get me out of this train wreck of a situation. Or…

I look back to her. Her and her cold-flushed cheeks; her and her cobalt eyes that seem to glow brighter with the kohl lining them; her and her knee-length cerulean dress that's only partially visible beneath the ivory, tailored coat that she's pulling tight around her form; her and her waves of pure silken gold that fall loosely around her shoulders. Just _her_… She's a winter wonderland personified, and she's breathtaking, and any of my options reduce quickly to one: I'm staying.

"You owe me." I tell her as I turn and walk towards the entrance.

"I _do_." She grabs my arm and stops me, repeats the words- "I really do." –and pulls me into her arms.

It's unexpected; the scent of her perfume oddly incapacitating. It leaves me dizzy, and I know even in that moment that that one fragrance is going to haunt me for the rest of my life. More than that is the way that three, four, five seconds pass and she still hasn't stepped away. With any other person, I'd find the lingering physical contact uncomfortable; with her, I find it unbearable. Patting one hand against her back, I straighten up and extract myself from her.

"You don't want to keep him waiting." I smile, pulling open the door for her, and I hope she knows it's genuine.

I hate this night before it's even truly begun, but I love her happiness even if it could be premature. God knows we all need reason to smile genuinely after some of the things we see day to day… but she deserves it more. She sees more than most of us; she handles more than we could ever conceive of; she makes decisions not a single one of us could _ever_ make. And she keeps it all and any evidence that it ever occurred in that chaotic little office of hers.

Now I understand why it _is_ so chaotic in there. If I was dealing with the things she does in that room, I wouldn't have time to clean either. If it was _my_ only point of solace and escape throughout the day, I wouldn't waste it organizing anything but my mind either.

"JJ…" The guy – Will – is standing by the bar as we enter, and he wastes no time rushing towards JJ. "I'm so glad you came. You look… incredible."

It had seemed that he was going to hug her, but apparently his nerves changed that plan and he settles instead for brushing his hand affectionately over her arm. His eyes linger on her, twinkling like this Christmas is the one in which all of his dreams finally come true, and for a brief moment, I see a spark of something I abandoned a long time ago: the magic of love and Christmas because, truly, what better gift could you receive? Or, in JJ's world at least. By the way she's looking at him, I'm certain something incredible is occurring for her too – I only hope my mere presence doesn't cause my curse to rub off on her.

He definitely seems like the perfect gentleman, but it's difficult to fully appreciate that when I'm stuck in this uncomfortable moment where I have no clue who my apparent suitor is. I shift awkwardly on my feet, chewing the inside of my lip for the third time since this date was mentioned – I'm not much enjoying the frequency at which my confident-happy exterior is deteriorating. This is _not_ my comfort zone…

"And, of course, you're Emily."

…but _this_, in some form, _is_ my comfort zone. Years of practice with politicians and mother's bureaucratic friends ensure the smile that forms on my face is both believable and charming, and that my handshake is solid. "And you're Will. It's so wonderful to see you again."

JJ shoots me a curious look but I choose to ignore it.

"You too." Will grins before looking to his left. "And this is Stacey. He's a child psychiatrist."

Impressive. How many _straight_ women would drool over this date? I politely hold out my hand and greet the guy who, even from my totally-gay standpoint, is beautiful. He's tan and muscular, but not overly so, and his short hairstyle and goatee, along with the littering of tattoos I can see strategically concealed beneath his white shirt, briefly leave me wondering how many clients he loses from his appearance. People like to stereotype. Maybe I'm stereotyping right now…

I am. Okay, now I understand JJ's peculiar look. I'm not being the 'me' she knows. I don't think I'm even being the 'me' _I_ know. Apparently I lost her somewhere between that little café and this restaurant. I'm so goddam nervous and have no clue why… It's not like I've never dated before - even if this particular date is nothing more than a show. But I can do shows, I decide. I grew up playing a part in one. I _got_ this.

"LaMontagne. Party of four."

A smiling blonde calls us and we're seated along the far back wall of the restaurant, a few tables over from the kitchen. There's something subtly embarrassed in Will's eyes as we take our seats, and it takes me a moment to realize why that is.

What kind of a woman does he think JJ is? She isn't from _my_ world – he needn't worry about pretentious expectations. Actually, JJ likely would have been more comfortable eating wings in a bar than dining here. She's not a fine china and caviar kind of girl: she's a beer-instead-of-wine, cereal-out-of-the-box, makes-a-mess-with-her-pizza kind of girl. But I can tell she likes this guy, and I make it my mission to ease the awkward atmosphere that seems to have descended.

"This is the best seat in the house." I grin. "It's impossible to people-watch stealthily when you're in the midst of them."

"Table by the pillar…" Stacey leans in with a whisper. "_Totally_ wearing a toupee."

Will and JJ look over with me, and we giggle in unison. Well that effectively broke the ice – or, rather, obliterated it. For the next hour, the conversation flows freely. We eat great food and chat about our respective jobs and share anecdotes about mutual acquaintances, and truthfully, for a moment, I forget just why it is that I'm here – and just why it is that I _shouldn't_ be here.

It's only when dessert arrives, and the guy beside me offers me a bite of his raspberry cheesecake - which I take enthusiastically in accordance with the rules of putting on a show – that I'm reminded that Will and Stacey aren't the only spectators to said show. Unreadable blue eyes look away as I wipe my mouth with a napkin, and I purposely take a slow sip of my wine in an attempt to gain a mere second of thinking-time in a moment where I have no privacy.

That expression she tossed my way just an hour ago was only the beginning – they've come in abundance since. I know she's seeing a side of me that she doesn't recognize, and somewhere in amongst trying to be the model – _straight_ – date, my over-thinking mind takes it upon itself to use any lull in the conversation from that moment as a point of deliberation. Do I have reason to be concerned that she's seen a side of me I typically never show? A side of me that isn't _actually_ me at all? Just how is she going to use that against me at a later date?

More importantly, why am I just now questioning her integrity in this way? JJ isn't the type to use anything against anyone, and yet right in this moment, I feel thoroughly exposed in a way my seemingly infamous defensive skills are powerless against.

It's almost thirty minutes more before my eyes dare to meet hers again, and somewhere in her smile that is not at all directed at me, I find just why it is that I'm trapped in this paranoid, fraudulent, nervous, conflicted place…

…because it's for _her_. I'm here, because it was _her_ who requested it and not another member of the team. I'm nervous like my presence amounts to more than a safety net should anything with Prince Charming go awry. I'm paranoid like my behavior matters more than what the guy beside me thinks. I'm fraudulent like those justifications I clouded my vision with that I was simply helping out a friend – a friend who I am _totally_ okay with just being a friend to – have abandoned me. I'm conflicted like, despite all of my over-thinking, I didn't truly consider the possibility that playing a role this time would actually be the very catalyst strong enough to bring about that which I hide behind my strategically-placed masks.

I'm nervous like I have absolutely no _right_ to be. I'm nervous like I'm on a date with _her_, and _only_ her.

"Uh-oh, five o'clock." Stacey utters, an expression somewhere between arrogance and revulsion curling at his lips.

It takes me a second – still fighting my way out of the debris and chaos that adorns the far back crevices of my mind – to remember just what angle would count as 'five o'clock', but I needn't have made the effort. This night is about to take a further unexpected turn.

"They're very brave, is all I can say." He continues. "If I were gay, I'm not sure I'd have the audacity."

I suddenly remember what angle 'five o'clock' is, and crane my neck to find two women, both probably mid-thirties, enjoying an intimate dinner - apparently too intimate for the guy beside me. There's only a little space between them as they chat, and the taller woman - the brunette - is idly running her thumb along the redhead's open palm. Honestly, I've done worse in public, but I doubt he needs to know that.

"_Stacey_."

The not-so hidden scold in that one word prompts me to turn back to find Will shooting Stacey a glare that I don't at all condemn him for, but what concerns me more is the expression on JJ's face. It's complex: it isn't angry, it isn't nonchalant; it isn't boldly against, or openly supportive of his blatantly homophobic statement. It's equal parts ambiguous and thunderous. It's, somehow, unnerving.

She's chewing at her lip much like I have more times than I can count lately, and all I want to do is brush my thumb along it to soothe it, soothe her. Her lips take the brunt of any over-thinking that occurs within her colorful mind, I know that much, but it's hard to say what she's struggling with. I try to read her eyes but they're fixed on the table - purposely, no doubt.

"Can I take this for you, ma'am?"

But the very short, very subtle glance cast my way, right before she leans back and smiles appreciatively to the waiter who takes her plate, leaves no ambiguity; leaves, actually, similar apology to what had been present in bright blue just ninety minutes ago. Her issue is _me_. I hadn't even considered that irony in all of this: here I am, because of her, accidentally on a date with a guy who doesn't even realize that I'm gay, listening to him announce that two women expressing their affection in public is 'brave'. I'd want to apologize to me too if I were her…

I just wish I had a way to tell her that she doesn't _need_ to. I just wish I had a way to take this joke beside me out of the equation, and allow her to enjoy a real date with the guy beside _her_ who, honestly, I think I'm even a little in love with despite my seasonal rule. I could picture him being the guy to hold her on those days when her whole world is crumbling, and to let her be free when her typically independent nature returns. I wish I could tell her _that_.

"Ladies room?" The smile on my face is intended to ease the unwarranted guilt in her eyes, but I think I made it worse.

"Sure." She nods, pushing herself up before tossing a smile – the one she uses for the media, I know – to the guys. "Excuse us."

We walk silently to the bathroom, but I notice the increase in the hast of her step as the restroom sign comes into sight, and once we're behind the closed door, she does just as I expect her to and jumps right into apology mode.

"Emily, I'm a _crappy_ friend. I am so sorry for putting you in this position." She's leant against the sink, her thumbs scratching furiously at her middle fingers. She thinks I can't see that, considering they're simultaneously gripping the lip of the counter, but I can. "This was such a selfish thing to ask of you, and now you're stuck with that knucklehead beside you who-"

"Jayje, stop." I chuckle at her frantic tirade and walk over to her, reach instantly for her hands to ease the assault that her thumbs are inflicting there. "You're not to blame for him. No one is to blame for him. If that's who he is, if that's what he believes, then that's fine. Honestly. _I_ don't care, and neither should you."

"But why don't you care?"

"Why _should_ I?" There's an amused tone to my voice that I hope she knows is more fondness directed at her incessant, endearing need to worry about everyone around her, and not at her _expense_. "He's a knucklehead, remember?" My amusement turns to a reassuring smile. "JJ, he doesn't affect my life at all. I'm content with who I am. And even if his opinion _did_ matter, it would not be enough to steer me away from the beautiful creatures that us women-folk are."

She's looking at me curiously again, and this time, for some reason, it shakes me enough to look away. She's asking me a question, I know that much now… but I don't think I want to know just what that question is.

"Anyway." I clear my throat, smile a smile I know she's expecting. "Will seems pretty much perfect, and that is why I'm going to do what I'm about to."

"What… do you mean?"

I shrug. "I'm going to leave with Stacey." I see the protest before she even opens her mouth and I can't help but laugh again – where does she fit in the simple task of breathing with all the worrying she does? "I don't plan to _sleep_ with him. I want to see you happy, Jayje, but I have to draw the line somewhere. No, I'm going to take him to the bar across the street. We're going to have one drink, and I think I'm going to clue him in on my predicament. I considered going for the cliché 'emergency call' route, but I'm too classy for that." I wink and squeeze her hands reassuringly. "So I'm being proactive. Should you and Will wind up married and making babies, I don't want his best friend to hold any kind of grudge against me at the wedding for sneakily ditching him and blemishing his ego."

She laughs, because of me, and it makes me feel weightless. It shouldn't make me feel weightless. It shouldn't really make me feel a whole lot else other than platonic warmth. But I know there's a lot of shouldn'ts in this moment – one being the fact that I'm not only still holding her hands, but have laced my fingers with hers and am currently running my thumbs over her knuckles. But friends do that, right?

Blue eyes drop between us, to our entwined hands, before cautiously meeting my gaze again. She opens her mouth slowly, and her lips remains parted, as if she's going to say something… and I realize that's probably my cue to step away. I know I'm, in that hasty gesture, doing nothing more than expressing my guilty conscience. If it had been Garcia – Garcia who I've never thought of in a more than platonic way – I would have held her hands all night and not even questioned it. But this isn't Garcia…

This is JJ. This is JJ, and I never should have agreed to this. I became very aware of that fact fifteen minutes ago, when I located just _why_ it was that my forty-two year old mind had dilapidated into that of a drunken teenage girl, and I'm _more_ than aware of it now. I have no business being here. I am the _last_ person she should have asked and she doesn't even realize it. I feel like a fraud.

"Come on." I hold the door open for her, encourage her with a smile and a flick of my head- "They'll be getting paranoid that we abandoned them." -and we head back to the table.

Upon our return, it becomes clear just how long we've been gone, when I recognize the bill has been paid and both guys are now nursing empty glasses–

"There's a bar across the street. Stacey and I hoped you'd both like to join us for a nightcap."

-and apparently killing my plan to give JJ and Will quiet time. Doesn't he realize I'm on _his_ side?

"Actually…" JJ grabs her coat, taking us all by surprise, and I can't help but stare at her with the same curiosity she's been tossing my way all night. The fact she grabbed her coat is about as subtle as the hint in her next words. "Do you think we could talk for a moment, Will?"

I witness the very instant that Will's smile drops slightly, those erased nuances of contentment now replaced with a hint of concern and a sense of heartbreak that is likely not unwarranted. What is she _doing_?

"Um," He nods, his smile returning like he's attempting to convince himself he's already over whatever is coming. "Of course, chère."

I can't hear what they're saying as they stroll towards the bar and turn away from us, but their body language says it all. I don't need to hear the words to recognize the slump in his shoulders that I've donned plenty of times throughout my years on this planet: she's letting him down, and trying to do so gently because JJ wouldn't do anything but. This is strangely heartbreaking to watch, mostly because I'm certain she was into him too. What did I miss between the bathroom and this very moment?

And when she nods and hugs him, that feeling of utter confusion only magnifies. It's just a hug, and yet I find myself lost to the intricacies in it. The sleeves of her coat pulled over her hands, the cuffs gripped into her palm by her fingertips as she wraps her arms around him. It's subtle but it places distance, and yet the embrace itself lingers, which tells me she truly did enjoy his company this evening. Now I'm totally lost.

"Well it's not tough to guess what's happening over there." Stacey interrupts my musings, and when I turn to face him, the glimmer in his eyes tells me I'm about to have to make the same speech JJ apparently just did. I'll _thank_ her for that later.

Will and I cross paths as I head towards JJ, and the brief hug I offer him is a lot less obligatory and awkward than the one I just gave the guy behind me. I'm certain there's something unintentionally pitying in my eyes as I pull back, but that erases entirely and reforms instead as something indecipherable when he whispers-

"People like her are rare. Make sure you take good care of her."

-and then disappears back to the table. I falter for a second, before uttering a feeble and somewhat involuntary promise to his back, and continue on to JJ who is stood by the bar looking like she just kicked a puppy. I barely need to slow my momentum when I reach her, the look in her eyes telling me she just wants out of this place.

Out on the street a minute or two later, her heels against the sidewalk is the only sound I can really hear. I find myself forgoing any of the familiar street sounds and latching instead onto that while I both use and question my profiling skills to decipher her move just now. It doesn't make any _sense_.

"JJ…" I catch her elbow and stop her. "Why did you do that?"

"Because." She shrugs and pulls her coat tighter around her, an uneasy expression playing in her eyes. "I just wasn't feeling it. I wanna get drunk."

Woah… That's not what I expected or wanted to hear. "_Why_?"

"Because you're my friend, and we have two days off from a job that we are typically married to, and I want to lose my inhibitions with someone I trust _and_ who understands how precious this free time is."

My eyes narrow. I know I'm not supposed to profile her, but I can't help it, and she doesn't help matters either by bravely holding my gaze, almost like she's willing me to do such a thing. There are so many contradictory shades of emotion in her eyes, so many more in the words she just spoke. And my heart sinks when I realize she, somewhere along the way, became me. She _was_ into him, _is_ into him - that's the point. Sometimes having feelings for a person is the very reason you walk away.

"How drunk?" I pose. If she's as stubborn as me while she's busy taking other leaves out of my book, badgering her to call him or go back to him isn't going to get me anywhere.

"I dunno." She grins, loops out her arm for me to link mine through and tugs us across the street through the slowly chugging traffic, before tossing a wink my way as we approach the bar. "I guess we'll see."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** The song that prompts JJ to randomly announce that it's Christmas is 'Fairytale of New York' by The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl. And you're crazy if you don't like that song. ;)

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**Chapter Three**

Forty-five minutes later and she's a totally different JJ. It's like she underwent a personality transplant somewhere between the restaurant and our table in this overcrowded bar. She's two shots ahead of me and yet she's holding her own like a pro. Her words aren't slurred; she isn't swaying or squinting to shake the buzz in her mind. She just seems free, content, alive.

It's amazing to see. I could watch her in this setting all night. Though, let's be honest, I could watch her all night in any setting. It's tragically ironic that I wound up spending my Christmas with the one person I'd ever even consider breaking my seasonal affection rule for; it's ironically tragic that that person is the one person I'd never have reason to break it for.

"Oh my god, oh my god!" She pulls the lemon she's been sucking on for a second or two out of her mouth and claps excitedly. "It's officially Christmas!"

I look to my watch and question that theory – it's only 10:05. "I think you're two hours early, sweetheart."

"No, fool." She rolls her eyes at me. "This song. It's my parents' favorite. My dad, he…" She pauses momentarily to bob her head along with the song as it shifts suddenly from piano to a medley of instruments, before continuing with a sentimental smile sparkling in her eyes. "He calls my mom, no matter where either of them are, whenever he first hears this song each year. He says it's officially Christmas when you hear it play on the radio."

I smile. Genuinely smile at just how beautifully heartwarming that is, and even find myself wondering how I could have allowed myself to become so warped about this holiday. It's really not that bad through her eyes… but the whole world isn't so bad through her eyes. She sees the beauty in everything. I wish I could hold such a pure view of the planet and its inhabitants.

And yet in her presence, I do. We sit in that bar for almost another full hour, laughing until our stomachs hurt, and not once do I feel the cold shiver of dread creep over my spine for the fact that it's Christmas. Not once do I think about the empty apartment I'm heading back to at some point, or the fact that, considering the typical alternative, I'm grateful for that. I don't think about the tornado of emotions that I have to place extra effort into containing at this time of year, and I don't think about just why that is. I don't think about anything but her… Her and that utterly free-spirited smile she tosses my way every so often. Her and those sparkling blue eyes that hold an indestructibly flawless view of everything they see. Her and how entirely safe she makes me feel at a time of year where I generally feel anything but.

It's only when she places her palms flat against the table and fixes her narrowed gaze directly on me later into our impromptu drinking date, and poses a question-

"Why do you pretend to like Christmas?"

-that I'm reminded of my defects. The question seemingly comes out of nowhere, but when I look to her, I can see in those determined eyes that she's been itching to ask me for more than the past second or two.

"I…" I shake my head and look away. Am I really that _transparent_? "I don't. I like Christmas."

"Oh wow… That wasn't even _slightly_ believable." Her laugh is husky from the shot she just downed, but she reaches out to confiscate _my_ drink. "I'm cutting you off. Your poker-face abilities are clearly dwindling with each unit of alcohol you consume."

"He-ey!" I chuckle and grab it back, both of our fingers now wrapped around the tall glass in a battle of wills. "Okay, _okay_." I relent – mostly because with those units of alcohol in my system, it isn't just my poker-face abilities that are affected, and I'm more than mildly concerned that if I don't remove my hand from hers now, I'll find myself in the same position I did back in that restroom. "How about a compromise?"

Apparently that's good enough because she releases my drink, rests her chin on her open palm and taps her fingers against her lips. "I'm listening."

I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, finally placing consideration into the compromise I now realize wasn't my wisest move, and lean forward. "I'll tell you why I don't like Christmas, if you tell me the real reason you ducked out on Prince Charming?"

She becomes instantly tense and unnerved, like that's the worst possible thing I could have suggested, and for a moment I'm certain she's going to decline. She stares at me for several seconds, her eyes fearful and searching, before eventually nodding with a timid and obviously reluctant, "Okay."

I don't like the tone of her agreement, mostly because it tells me I'm going to have to offer something substantial. Whatever left her so damn conflicted over answering a simple question is going to warrant more than, _I just don't get it_.

Funnily enough, that's what I find myself going with. "I just don't get it. All of that obligatory merriness is really just a way to remind you of all that is _not_ merry."

She appraises me, slipping her pinky briefly into her mouth and I loathe and love it the same way I do every time she does it. "You could look at it that way… Or you could look at it in the sense that it's a new chance to fix whatever it is that you find misery in."

Hypnotized by her logic, I find myself entertaining it. "…But what if it's not within my power to fix that which I find misery in?" I hate the question, because it isn't like I'm _miserable_. I'm just… proactive. I'm ensuring that I don't blindly place myself in a moronic, enlightening position again - ironic considering just where I am and who I'm with tonight. Regardless, I'm being sensible, and logical. It's possible I'm being irrational, but we'll ignore that.

"That which you find misery in…" She leans forward, her eyes somehow telling me that absolutely nothing matters more than this conversation. "How many times did it happen before it finally had somewhat of a Pavlovian effect?"

A puff of air, similar to a scoff, bursts from my lips and my eyes drop. At this point, I'm not even certain that it's a result of feeling exposed, or because I'm wondering how the hell she managed to put that puzzle together with the few pieces I gave. I think it's simply that, in that surprisingly simple moment, I feel like a weight has been lifted. Apparently this, what I do every day, the masks I alter for any given scenario, is exhausting. It won't last, but for that moment at least, I'm not wearing any. I'm just Emily. I forgot what it feels like to be just Emily.

"Three." I reach for the straw in my drink and absentmindedly stir the liquid. "It seems there is no in-between. Christmas is either a time for finding yourself in the midst of the most beautiful fairytale fathomable, or it's a time for getting your heart broken in, often, the shittiest kind of way."

"…So to erase the memories you find yourself with at this time of year, you pretend you love Christmas. Possibly because you're hoping that if you pretend hard enough, you'll even convince yourself, and then you won't have to acknowledge that, for you, deep down, it's an issue that you don't know how to resolve." She deduces all of that like the honorary-profiler she is, her voice softening right along with her eyes. "Is there anything you don't have a mask for?"

That, ironically, right after a split second to feel sadness for her words, is the catalyst strong enough to return said masks. The answer to her question is no, of course, and that answer is one too devastating for me to directly address right now. If I don a mask for absolutely everything I say and do, then how can I even be certain that that moment, a few minutes ago, was truly _me_?

Like I imagine she's expecting me to, I bypass the question with my own- "Why do you _actually_ love Christmas?" –and confirm her suspicions that I'm wearing one of those apparently infamous masks once more. She lets me have it, and I suddenly realize that she always lets me have it.

"It's just… amazing, Em." Her eyes wander, her bottom lip slipping between her teeth even as she smiles and when she releases it, she laughs breathily. "I wish I had more to support that statement, but it's more a feeling than something you can see or touch, or even explain."

"Come on…" I wink. "Make a believer out of me." But the lightheartedness to my demeanor fades considerably when I notice she suddenly isn't laughing anymore – is no longer even smiling. I frown, until it occurs to me why she looked so perturbed by the question I posed minutes ago. I knew I shouldn't have let her walk away from him. "Sweetheart…" I lean forward and, against my better judgment, take her hand. "You really did like him, didn't you? That's what's wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong." She replies calmly, and I can't read the blue eyes that shift to our joined hands.

Her thumb tracing the crevices of my knuckles is pretty much the only thing that keeps me from tearing my hand away, and I can't help but swallow whatever bizarre feeling it is creeping up my chest and throat. But it won't stop coming, and before I know it, I'm pushing her as far away from me as I possibly can without just getting up and physically extracting myself from the situation. "You should call him and tell him you had a momentary lapse in judgment or something – he'll understand. He's the first decent guy you've met in a very long time, JJ. And god knows we don't get many opportunities for a happily ever after. You should-"

"I don't want to." She cuts me off firmly and meets my eyes again. "I am _happy_ here with you. I couldn't imagine spending Christmas Eve any other way."

"But I'm not half as cute and charming as he is." I smirk playfully and reach for my drink, solely so I can return my hand to a safe distance from hers.

"Why do you always do that, Em?" I can see her frown out of my peripherals but don't dare meet her eyes directly – they suddenly seem more dangerous than ever. "Make a joke out of something sincere?"

Red light: profilers are not meant to ask that of each other. We all have ways of making it through, and we all know that. It isn't spoken of, for fear of disrupting the fragile integrity of _any_ defense mechanism. Ignorant by nature, they'd crumble under any kind of direct light. JJ would never do that to me. Which tells me she knows the answer, in this regard, is nothing at all to do with our job, but tragedy I found on my journey elsewhere.

I think that's worse. Why would she _ask_ me that? She never does. She _always_ lets me have it. And then I realize: this is the question she's been silently asking me all night. Furthermore, I finally recognize the tone in which she posed the question: soft, defeated, and somehow hopeful. She's not seeking to expose my vulnerabilities – she's baring her own. Her own being that, apparently, I hurt her when I do that.

Lifting my eyes to hers, I open my mouth to speak, but the words die on my tongue when I realize that that too would have been a trivializing joke. Jesus, do I actually know any string of words that _wouldn't_ be that? "You looked beautiful tonight, JJ. _Look_… beautiful. I don't know what happened with Will, maybe he just isn't the guy I read him to be, and I know you're more than reluctant to tell me so I'm not going to push. But you're _beautiful_, and I really hope you know that."

Oh, apparently I do. _Closed 'til Spring. Closed 'til Spring. Closed 'til Spring._

She's studying me again with something intense in her eyes, and I'm equal parts captivated and baffled by it. I'm almost certain it's relief that I'm seeing, but why would that be so? What possible reason could she have to be relieved that I just told her she's beautiful? It's reasonable enough to put it down to the chance that she's probably not feeling so beautiful after ditching Will, but when something new flickers through those now dark blue eyes and she speaks-

"You're pretty damn beautiful yourself, Emily Prentiss."

-my stomach twists in the most delectable way. If I didn't know any better, I'd bunch that compliment right along with the gentle fingers that have found their way to mine more than once tonight, and deduce that she's flirting with me. But I _do_ know better – or at least well enough to remain aware of the fact that she's at least mildly drunk, not to mention _straight_.

This time, it's she who looks away first – drops her eyes shyly and smiles - and I'm _grateful_. Things just shifted in a way I have absolutely no idea what to do with. Apparently I don't have a mask for this little turn of events.

"We need more drinks." She pushes herself out from the booth and walks away, and I watch her until she's enveloped by a crowd of people. It leaves me feeling uneasy, not being able to see her, or even the small hands that she held up above the mass of bodies to slim herself out for a better maneuver. But I blame that fully on the job we do, and not on any kind of protectiveness on a personal level.

I turn back to my almost consumed drink–

"We gotta go!"

-but the sudden grip on my arm causes me to instinctively reach for a weapon that isn't there, and lucky for the panicked yet amused blue eyes staring at me, I'm already half out of my seat.

"Jayje, what the _hell_?"

She looks quickly in the direction I swear I watched her head just ten seconds ago, and shakes my arm- "Quick. Coat. Now." –and when I look over to the bar to see two familiar male faces, an involuntary giggling 'oh' passes my lips and suddenly _I'm_ the one ushering _her_ out of the door.

I run both like my life depends on it, and like I'm willing to get caught, sneaking quick glances behind me to ensure my partner in crime – or evasion - is following, despite already knowing that since I have a firm grasp on her hand.

She's laughing so freely – drunkenly, of course – and it's a sight to behold. I never see that. I doubt _anyone_ ever sees that. I doubt she herself sees it all that frequently… And it affects me more than I ever thought possible, her whole-hearted chuckle reflecting off of her lips and onto mine. My cheeks burn from grinning as I run faster from the duo who are not – nor were they ever – chasing us; ducking and swerving through crowds of passersby and taking quick glances back to make sure she dodged them too.

We're grown women, running hand-in-hand through the streets of DC with almost no logical reason and giggling like schoolgirls who just got kicked out of an R-rated movie; and when we turn a corner to find refuge in an alley… I'm kissing her. She's against the wall with my blind encouragement, and I'm kissing her, _hard_, and I know I shouldn't be, for far, far more than the fact that she's my colleague, but I can't stop. I can't stop and she's…

She's kissing me back. Not politely, not drunkenly, but like there's nothing she wants to be doing more. Like she's wanted to forever. Like her entire world is going to fall apart if she stops, and it only encourages the part of me that never did heed my seasonal affection warning.

My fingertips tangle in her hair as I cup her cheeks, and it's _her_ tongue that slips into _my_ mouth – something I store away to use as my primary argument at a later date when she's berating me for crossing a boundary tonight. And when her hands slide beneath my jacket, solely to run up my back and then down again, my case becomes solid: this was _not_ my fault. Well… not totally.

Still, it's me who pulls back. "What are we _doing_?" I can feel the shakiness of my own words vibrate against her lips. "More importantly… what am _I_ doing?"

"You're kissing me in an alley." She breathes the words directly into my mouth, her fingers now gripping my shirt like she's afraid I'm going to run. It's probably not an unjustified fear. "I took you as more of a conservative kinda woman."

"You've… thought about it?" I hate the naive vulnerability in my voice, almost as much as I hate the fact that, yes, I am kissing her in an alley. Totally not what I fantasized about in those moments that I actually allowed myself to fantasize about it.

Her gaze turns to one of seriousness, an almost frown playing against her brow that I know is supposed to depict her sincerity. "More times than you'll ever believe."

She's not wrong there, especially since I'm having trouble even believing that _this_ is happening. Or rather, that she isn't offended or repulsed, but actually seemingly elated about it.

I brush my lips over hers once more, simply to feel and savor their softness, half of my mind certain that this one single perfect second is going to come to an end all too soon and never be returned to me except in memory. And true to form, I'm the one who stops it before she can. Controlling the uncontrollable, I tell myself, but it's not lost on me that we've probably already crossed that point of no return. "I should stop."

"I don't want you to, Emily." She places one gentle, lingering kiss against my lips. "I really don't but…" She must sense the hurt in my eyes even before I open them, because she clutches tighter at my shirt and smiles. "But in our haste to flee that bar… I left my coat. I'm _freezing_."

My apartment is two blocks away, and I instantly bite my lip to oust the invitation that I'm terrified will be misconstrued. This moment is far too hazed in lust and alcohol for me to pull logical thought out of the ambiguity, because while I got a literal answer to my question, I'm still none-the-wiser as to just what it is we're doing – the more important part of that query being: what is it that _she's_ doing?

"Lucky for me…" She whispers. "The woman I would love to make out with some more – out of the dank confines of the city alleys – happens to have a warm, cozy apartment two blocks from here. I mean…" She shifts uncomfortably in my arms and I hate the feeling of the cold that rushes in between us. "Unless you'd rather I didn't." She grimaces. "That was really presumptuous, wasn't it?"

I want to tell her that it isn't as simple as that. That there are rules, rules that have already been broken in the past several minutes… Lots of rules, and reasons for those rules, and naivety for those reasons, and that crazy thing they call love for that naivety. But perhaps it could be as simple as that… It is Christmas after all – what better time for a miracle?

My lips capture hers once more- "I like presumptuous-JJ." –before I wrap my jacket around her shoulders, shift one full step away, and hold out a hand for her to take.

I should be questioning why she wants to spend her evening kissing me when, just two hours ago, she had a more than willing, _male_ companion, and one who undoubtedly would have given anything to spend the night with her. I should be questioning a lot of things…

…but what I actually find myself pondering as I walk those DC streets back to my apartment with a shivering blonde nestled into my side, is whether I left that apartment in an acceptable state before I headed out this evening.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** I just wanted to say I'm grateful to those of you taking the time to review this story. It's kind of (very) demotivating to put a bunch of time into writing to a mostly silent audience (not that I don't appreciate my silent followers - I _do_ \- it's just difficult to know what I'm doing right/wrong/etc.)

That said, I know it's also incredibly demotivating to put the time into a review and receive no acknowledgement from the writer. So, to those of you still following: _thank you_. I appreciate everything you have to say – short, lengthy, good, bad – and look forward to hearing what you think of the remaining chapters. There aren't many left, but I'm trying my best to make them worth your while.

**Also:** Sorry for the possibly terrible Italian translation. And for the lengthiness of this chapter. And for the delay in updating. I think that is all... Enjoy! :)

* * *

**Chapter Four**

It takes longer than her body temperature is comfortable with to reach my apartment, and the second my front door is opened, my laugh echoes her path as she runs down the hall – the fastest I've ever seen a person run in heels – and drops to the ground somewhere in front of the fireplace.

It's adorable. She's adorable. She's… beautiful. I've always known that, but until tonight, I've struggled to place just what it is that sets her apart from most every other woman I've ever met. Now, I realize, it's because she's the exact middle ground of _everything_. She's sexy as hell, but she's also cute. She's a badass, a force to be reckoned with… but she's also incredibly compassionate and gentle. She's wildly intelligent, but she also has a delightfully goofy streak. She's perfection, but she doesn't flaunt it; doesn't, actually, even know it. She's-

My god, she's just JJ. There is no other word in the English language to describe her. She's just _JJ_. She's JJ, and I'm Emily – quite possibly her antonym. I drop my gaze and continue on down the hall, my sudden lack of self-certainty following me like a shadow.

As she warms up by the fire, my mind takes the moment of partial solace to slip away into those questions I found myself with twenty minutes ago. I ponder them as I make coffee - certain we don't need any more alcohol – and those ponderings only magnify when I realize it seems as though I'm going out of my way to keep her awake and active. Is that presumptuous? Is she just here to utilize my heating and possibly a jacket before heading home? Why is she here at all when, just two hours ago, she was seemingly besotted with a very handsome, very charming, very _male_ detective?

And why, if that's so, is she currently slipping her arms around my waist and pressing her lips to the nape of my neck? What game is she trying to play?

"JJ…" I brace my hands almost fearfully at the lip of the counter even as my head leans forward in silent encouragement. I can feel the cold still radiating off of her, and somehow, it only heightens my arousal – I'm pretty certain I've never wanted someone so badly in my life. Because of that, I'm certain I've never been more terrified in my life – and, as neither her nor any member of the team are aware, I once danced with the devil himself.

My breathing comes in unsteady bouts as I attempt to string together just what it is that I want to ask – or whether I want to ask anything at all. She's here, isn't she? And apparently not just for the late-night caffeine fix. Shouldn't I just be grateful for that?

"I know you have questions." She whispers against the soft flesh of my neck, and I struggle to keep ahold of the words for the way her hand slides beneath the bottom of my shirt and splays low on my abdomen. "And I have answers for you. But I need you to request them. I need to know that I'm right in thinking you care enough to _have_ those questions. I need to know I didn't fabricate that in my own mind."

Damn straight I have questions, pretty reasonable questions at that, but when I turn in her arms to meet her gaze, her eyes make every single one of them redundant. She looks so honest, so open and unguarded… She doesn't at all resemble someone who is going to tear out my heart.

_God, this is_ _JJ_, I remind myself for the umpteenth time. _JJ would never intentionally hurt anyone…_ And it's that rationale that means instead of spouting out insecurities in the form of questions, I place my hands against her hips and guide her back towards the kitchen island. Slowly, offering her the chance to back out.

To my apparent surprise, she doesn't. Instead, as the lip of the counter meets her back, she trails her fingers the whole length of my arms, her blue eyes looking up at me with such utter certainty and clarity that I'm envious. How can she be so clear, when I'm so conflicted? Perhaps because she holds all the cards… And I'm too cowardly to request a peek.

She runs her fingertips back down my arms, and when they reach my hands, she lifts them both, one at a time, to her lips. A chaste but deep kiss meets each palm in turn, and once she's done, she lowers them to ghost along the thigh-high hem of her dress, a silent reassurance that accompanies the most penetrating blue eyes I've ever seen. What possible arsenal could I – or anyone on the damn planet – have against that?

I'm certain I had morals and convictions two hours ago, but now all I'm left with is a loose sense of nobility that somewhat remembers just how many units of alcohol she consumed tonight, and rules and warnings that are elusive at best. They're an unworthy adversary when I consider what they're up against, and are barely a fading echo in the distance as I capture her lips and encourage her up onto the counter, my hands sliding more confidently beneath her skirt and, effectively, pushing the material up. I'm partially afraid that I'm going too fast, but as she parts her legs around my waist, my fingers slip higher still and an involuntary moan tumbles from my lips as I meet the telltale lace trimming her nylons.

She's wearing stockings… My god, she's wearing stockings. Even if my winter romance rule wasn't already in tatters, it still would have conceded defeat entirely at this point. I think she inadvertently found my kryptonite, because let's be honest, is there any sight comparable to a woman wearing stockings?

I pull back, push away the blue silk of her dress with one hand and follow the leisurely journey of my other with something of awe in my chest. My bottom lip slips naturally between my teeth as my fingertips meet the soft, exposed flesh of her upper thigh. "I know these weren't for me…" I whisper, and look back to her. "But I'm glad I'm the one who gets to appreciate the effort."

She smiles like I just handed her the whole world and leans into my ear- "I _hoped_ they were for you." –before moving to the other ear with a little more seduction in her voice. "Would you believe me if I told you I thought of you as I slipped them on?"

I groan unashamedly, assuming it redundant to admit that no, I would not believe that, because I'm certain she already knows as much. But wouldn't that be something… if she had indeed thought such things? If she had indeed given me any kind of romantic thought prior to the point where the alcohol lowered her standards and/or preferences?

Greedily, I press my lips to hers as my hands meet her ass and pull her flush against me, and I swallow the delectable whimper that escapes her throat. She slips her tongue into my mouth, just like she did back in that alley, and I respond by hooking my fingers beneath the sides of her panties… Now I'm _certain_ I'm moving too fast. Surely this is the point where she comes to her senses, realizes that she's about to cross a line with a _female_ coworker, and stops me. But when she instead kisses me a little more urgently and pushes eagerly on my wrists to encourage the material away, I lose all sense of chivalry – if that's even what it is. I'm done questioning whether she truly wants this.

Black lace meets my kitchen floor and is forgotten sooner than that, her dress now bunched so high on her hips that I can see her arousal glistening along the upper portion of her inner thighs. "You're so wet…"

I hadn't intended to say it out loud, but genuine astonishment will do that to you. There's so much honesty in that wetness. Humans lie for many reasons, but the body doesn't lie. And all I can think is… _I barely touched her_. This arousal isn't the result of direct stimulation but of the mere _anticipation_ of that. The mere anticipation of me… Could it be that she genuinely wants this? Wants me?

She doesn't say a word but, with her eyes seemingly purposely locked with mine, she takes my hand, uncurls my fingers and directs them, not just to that wetness, but inside her. A half-finished whimper, on her part, punctuates the moment that my fingers are enveloped in the most inviting wet, warmth, and short nails cut deep into the back of my neck as she tenses against me.

The pain is intoxicating… isn't it always? At any other time, in any other moment, someone would probably get – at the very _least_ – yelled at for doing such a thing, and yet in this moment I encourage it: splay my hand against her lower back and push deeper inside her, solely to feel the short, sharp fingernails cutting little crescent-shaped indentations into my flesh. It's fucking addictive… about as addictive as the way my name rolls off of her tongue: breathy, and yet almost a plea. I'm certain it's never sounded so erotic, or beautiful, or elegant.

There's an intensity on her face that scares me, a soft furrow in her brow that both belies and validates the thunderous array of emotions flashing in the eyes that still, at this point, haven't left mine… and I can't look away. This is JJ, at her most unguarded, at her most uninhibited, at her most beautiful, perched upon my counter-top with my fingers inside her, and _she's_ looking at _me_ like I'm the sight to behold.

If only we could stay in this moment. This perfect, simple, intense but untainted moment… But as she adjusts to my invasion and her hips begin moving, sound returns to my mind and I watch with a heavy heart as the fragility crumbles and plummets into the depths of reality. My free hand shifts naturally from her lower back, to between her shoulder blades, where a zipper protrudes slightly from the material of her dress, and with one last glance to her, I pull, effectively freeing her breasts from the confines in which they're encased.

There's no hesitation from there, no more effort to keep ahold of a moment that I never really had the right to. This is what it is and it's not _that_, and I waste no time taking her nipple between my lips, my fingers now picking up a more determined pace. They have an end game in sight, and one that doesn't involve studying the varying array of exquisite intricacies that flash through Jennifer Jareau's eyes as she gets high.

I roll my tongue in time with each curl of my fingers, her broken whimpers blindly encouraging and dangerously enchanting. And when she slips away from me, her back arched beautifully against granite, I move lower, much lower, and let the fingers tangling tight in my hair guide me as I force her towards the finish line.

The profiler in me would analyze this so easily, if only I would let it. The way in which she's still partially dressed; the way in which I'm fully dressed. The way in which I'm no longer kissing her now that I'm inside her; the way in which I'm bypassing foreplay and pushing for a quick finish; the way in which I'm as disconnected from _fucking_ her as I could possibly be without just not being there at all… But I'm _not_ letting it. The sound of logic and reason and intellect and truth is blockaded perfectly by the tornado of whimpers and pants and pleas that _I'm_ causing; by typically delicate fingers twisting exquisitely in my hair and thighs clamping tight around my cheeks. It's erased by each inward thrust, and each roll of my tongue…

But when her sounds fall to impeccable silence, and her body tenses impossibly, I almost lose my detached composure, almost move to kiss her and be close to her as she comes undone but I'm so afraid that that will make me _fall_ _in love with her_. No longer lust, no longer stealthily-hidden, more-than-platonic affection… but love. Something it always truly was, but would be impossible to ignore should I make this reckless situation anything more than fucking. It has to be fucking… So I linger, play my role, keep my mouth latched onto her clit and my fingers moving steadily inside her as she shakes through her orgasm. But when her hand encourages me away, and I look up to find an expression of pure tranquility etched across every inch of her angelic face, I find nothing but love anyway.

That's a sight I'm never going to be able to relieve myself of, no matter how many dumb, fake Christmas traditions, or self-imposed rules I create.

Her bare chest is heaving and shining with the most beautiful glow, her left arm strewn over her eyes and her mouth slack and smiling. And when I withdraw my fingers from her and she pushes herself up onto her elbows to catch my gaze, I, strangely, feel like the exposed one. In the aftermath, I'm not sure of my role. I think this game of make-believe is over but I don't know who won. If I'm supposed to feel victorious, why do I instead feel like a criminal waiting for a jury to decide his fate?

She shifts herself forward, and I naturally take two steps back. Take two steps back and marvel in the way she, so damn confidently, slips off of the counter and allows her dress to fall to the ground. She's stood in nothing but her stockings, and I'm suddenly confronted with the fact that she has absolutely every right to be so confident. She's fucking perfect.

Like a magnet, my fingers are drawn to touch, but she shakes her head and clasps my hand, places a kiss to the knuckles and inflicts another chink in my armor. When she unexpectedly turns on her heel, I wonder briefly where she's taking me, and then feel ridiculous when she heads for the stairs. Of course, the bedroom – the place where most normal, unaffected-by-dumb-rules, human-beings have sex. Which is all it is.

It's just sex. Just sex. Just-

"_Wow_…" She chuckles breathily when we reach the threshold, and I have to cock my head slightly to the side to see what caused such a misplaced reaction.

Behind her, lurking in the shadows of my room, is a bed piled with pretty much every article of clothing I own, and instead of leaving me feeling instantly vulnerable for everything that it implies, it makes me think of Morgan. Of Morgan and the reason he requested my presence tonight. It makes me think of the love he holds for Garcia, and vice-versa, and makes me wish that I could fall that bravely and willingly and freely into something so deep and uncontrollable… It seems to have its rewards after you survive beyond the initial minefield of fear and adjustment. It makes me wish, regardless of what this is to her, that I hadn't wasted that opportunity downstairs to love her in the way I was once capable of – even if it's just for one night.

"I, uh…" I grimace and rub my hand against the back of my neck, before moving to scoop up the evidence of my indecision and toss them into the closet and out of sight. "I'm not used to going on dates, JJ. Especially dates that _I_ didn't plan or have any real say in."

There's a smile on her face that is reassuring but still clearly amused, and clearly amused at my expense. More than that, there's something in her eyes that tells me, after our conversation back in that bar, she's very aware that the former part of my sentence was the most vital. How pathetic is that? I'm supposed to be Emily Elizabeth Prentiss: compartmentalizing, unshakeable, ass-kicking superhero. And now she knows it's a front… Now she knows that I can take on the evils of the world without blinking, but placed in a position where my heart is remotely at risk, I'm more likely to choose flight-mode. Beneath my mask, and my cape, and my herculean strength… I'm human.

She _knows_ that, she's _sees_ that - like I'm just another tragic romance novel and my every truth is laid out between the words for her scrutiny - and it leaves me certain that I should regain some semblance of control over this situation. Reclaim the dominant-detached role and give her the one thing she could possibly be here for. Because I feel dangerously submissive in this moment, like I'm standing on the edge, and I'm not afraid of being pushed, but of jumping willingly. She makes me want to jump.

"It's a _good_ thing." She promises as she steps towards me. "It's a _really_ good thing, Emily."

Her words stunt any lame efforts I make to withdraw into myself, and while I know she isn't talking about the mess on my bed specifically, I believe it. That messy bed validated any and every query she may have had downstairs about my feelings towards her, and I _believe_ that that's a good thing.

She didn't fabricate a damn thing and now she knows it, and I'd be more concerned for the position that places me in if the delectable moan I'm offered in the exact instant she presses her mouth to mine wasn't so intoxicating. I know she can taste herself on me; I know it's turning her on as much as it is me just knowing that. But is it causing other similar stirrings within her? Does she see how intimate such a thing is? And, more importantly, does she relish in or regret such intimacy?

With a hand against my abdomen, she guides me towards the bed, and with little gentility, she pushes me backwards. I fall with a soft bounce, instinct pushing me to prop myself up on my elbows but she's already following me, her thighs parted around mine as she traces the curve of my jaw with her lips.

Between us, I can feel her fingers, deft and gentle, move against each button on my shirt, until the sharp chill of the air melding seamlessly with the soothing warmth of her bare skin marks the point that I'm partially rid of the material. I instinctively pull her closer, even as my mind fights to push her further away. And her kiss - deep and wet and needy - is the perfect incentive to stay put.

When she pulls back, she trails her middle finger in a single line, from my throat, between my breasts and along the abdomen that tenses beneath her touch – and her eyes narrow like she's cataloguing the reaction. Her fingers move against my flesh like they're studying me, trying to remember me, and, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, her gaze meets mine in a manner that leaves me certain I'm being offered something profound and I'm just not catching it… But her palm, now sliding confidently up my torso, is distracting, and when the front clasp of my bra is released to a warm, wet mouth, the analytical part of my mind malfunctions.

My body naturally arches into her as she rolls her tongue much like I did downstairs - only, she's more gentle, more deliberate in her actions. There's method in her every move that tells me she's done this before, but cautiousness that makes me wonder just what it is she's cautious of. But I don't _want_ to wonder. I just want that blissful second of silence back. I don't _want_ to think. I don't _want_ to analyze…

And yet I can't seem to _stop_. I can cling to her as tight as my strength will allow, but it won't stop my mind and my heart from boarding a plane to far-off lands where they're at a safe distance from this soon-to-be warzone. I know – I _know_ – this can't possibly end well.

But when her teeth graze over my nipple right before she pulls it deeper into her mouth and sucks hard, I'm helpless to the guttural cry that bursts from my lips, or the needy hands that tangle in her hair and encourage her ministrations. My hips move like she's already inside me, searching for direct contact, and she responds by slipping her thigh between mine and pressing it without any kind of gentility against my pussy. The pressure causes something bright and cleansing to flash behind my eyes. The combining sensations of her every move is sensory overload, and my ability to think is a welcome casualty. I don't want her to stop. Ever. Because I _want_ her, and I don't want my over-thinking tendencies to be the reason I deprive myself of her.

_Please don't stop. Please._

But she does stop, and with a smirk on her lips too, and I'm certain it's longing that I feel radiating in my chest for that moment of authentic desperation. The sense of loss is terrifying, blares out as a warning in my mind. If she's capable of having that effect on me simply through physical touch, what disasters are yet to come? Playing with something as fragile as emotion is a dangerous thing – I've learnt that - and I'm so close to disentangling myself from her… But then she kisses me, softly, her hand pressed gently to my heart before she slides it slowly towards my belt.

She isn't quick to free the buckle. Instead, she runs her fingers leisurely along the leather until she reaches metal, tugs on it and smiles against my lips. "I always wondered… Why is your belt buckle permanently off-center?"

And I laugh. Fully, I laugh, and every inch of me relaxes as I'm reminded once again who this woman in my personal space is. I reach up and brush my thumb over her cheek. "Why do you think?"

"Welllll…" She tosses her hair over one shoulder, and right after swiping her tongue along my bottom lip, she tells me, "I think it's to distract thirty-four year old blonde agents who wish to taste what's underneath."

"Wow…" I laugh breathily – and, let's be honest, intensely aroused by the onslaught of imaginings such words provoke. "That wasn't the reason. But it sure as hell is now."

"You're going to think of me every time you shift it off-center, Emily Prentiss."

The words sound more like a promise, and it's just another to add to the pile of many she's made tonight that I – either bravely or recklessly – believe. She presses her lips to every inch of my abdomen as she moves to release my buckle, button, and zipper and shifts my jeans down over my thighs, and the memory sears across the walls of my mind, permanently etched there as a tattooed reminder of her promise.

I don't dare tell her that the only reason my seemingly infamous belt buckle is off-center is because I'm right-handed, and since I buckle it with one hand in my haste to leave for work each morning, it winds up remaining to the right. Nah… her reasoning is far more interesting, and probably, now, entirely truthful.

"I'll make sure of it."

She adds that final promise to the pile as she crawls over me once more, and I hold onto it. Just minutes ago, I was panicking over just how untypically submissive I felt beneath her touch, how I should probably stop her and regain control before I lost it entirely. But now, with a curtain of golden hair brushing against my cheeks, forming to create a world within a world, as she studies me with similar intensity to what she has been all night, I find the absurd notion is gone.

It got lost somewhere between that unexpected question, and the most adoring gaze I have ever been the victim of; and as she slips her hand between us to my panties, and we both realize just how wet I truly am for her, I find that I don't even want it back. Detachment isn't going to work now anyway… It's blatantly obvious how much I want her. It's blatantly obvious that this, this very moment, means more to me than she knows I'll ever say with words. What's strange is how easy that final transition was - from conflicted to totally-at-her-mercy. And I am. She could devour my heart and never even bother handing it back in a neat little bow… and I think that would be okay.

"For probably justified reasons..." She whispers into my ear as she moves her fingers slowly against me. "I think you're afraid to take your time with this." My panties are pushed aside and two fingers slide through my wetness, and my own grip in anticipation at her biceps as I part my thighs further around her. "So I'm going to make this quick, because I think, right now, that is what you need." Punctuating her point perfectly, the neediest sound I've ever heard myself make tumbles into the darkness as she pushes deep inside me, and the edges of my mind fade into a beautiful, ghostly reality that, welcomingly, relinquishes me of all control. "But then, Emily… You're going to trust me to take my time with you. Because you _can_ trust me."

She doesn't say another word after that, and the ones she has said abandon me as she thrusts into me with skilled determination – seemingly indeed intent on making it quick. Every move she makes reaffirms to me that she's done this before, and every move she makes reduces my mind to such peace that I'm incapable of analyzing that – or _anything_.

Her body moving in perfect tandem with mine is all that matters; the heated breaths that fan against my lips and mirror my own are all that matters; the fingers of her free hand that tangle in my hair and force me to keep my eyes locked with hers are all that matters… and the sincerity in those dark blue eyes staring back at me matter more than all of that combined. I'm giving away my every secret in holding her gaze as she unravels me, and I don't _care_.

I'm so close already… I can feel it everywhere. I'm numb and yet so acute to everything. My mind is as silent, and warm, and blissful as a creek, and yet rushing by like a river… and as the swell rises within me, I'm kissing her again. Kissing her like I did in that alleyway; kissing her like I _didn't_ downstairs. I'm clutching onto her like she's the only damn thing keeping me safe, as I storm through the most intense orgasm I've ever felt.

I always thought that line to be cliché… Now I realize an orgasm is far more intricate than being a result of the physical. A whole world opens behind your eyelids when you climax, just a split second to catch a glimpse of something so otherworldly enlightening and awe-inspiring. You can't place thought into it – thought warps it. You have to let go entirely, allow the high to take you where it wants to…

For the first time in far too long, I did. I didn't fight it, and I didn't allow the fear of someone seeing me at my most exposed drag me back prematurely from euphoria. More importantly, I didn't overthink the moment, overthink _her_, and as a result, I have never felt so blissfully at ease in my life. No questions, no what-ifs, no stale certainties… just the peaceful hum of our combined steadying breaths and the soothing caress of her lips tracing the curve of my brow.

Which is probably the reason that, despite myself, I _do_ allow her to take her time with me. I even encourage her, let her see what I like and what I don't. I don't fuck her, but I make love to her, and beneath her flesh, I find pieces of the person I once was. I don't think; I just do. And I let her see my face when I come more times than I probably should - more times than is probably _safe_. But she didn't make it feel that way, dangerous. With every second of what I was convincing myself hours ago was just sex, I could tell she was there and absolutely nowhere else. She wasn't fucking me for fuckings sake; she wasn't fucking me because she was drunk; she wasn't fucking me in an effort to forget her feelings for someone else; she wasn't fucking me to hide deceit; she wasn't… fucking me at all.

How can that be so? When did my profiling skills start steering me wrong? If she's straight and not invested in this for more than tonight, why is my body and my mind and my heart telling me that this woman is exactly where she's supposed to be?

"You're so beautiful when you come…" I open my eyes to find hers are tinted with something akin to wonder, tremors present in her voice that mirror my own unsteady breaths. "So unguarded and calm. It's incredible to see."

She's smiling, but only in those beautiful blue eyes of hers, and the lips I ghost against hers are an attempt to fight my way back to logical ground – or, rather, safely-detached ground. Something that's considerably more difficult to do when every inch of me is so exquisitely exhausted, and when the sweat-slick flesh resting fully against mine feels like nothing less than heaven, and when the nose she brushes gently against my own reflects intimacy that I haven't allowed myself to experience in so long. I'm pretty certain that that safely-detached ground, quite simply, no longer exists, and I feel safe. I should feel defenseless but, god… I feel _safe_.

"You wear so many masks, Emily. You certainly went through a lot tonight…" She runs her fingers through my hair and then rests her forehead against mine, whispering like it's a secret no one else can know. "But it makes me wonder… How many of those masks do you use on me?"

Instantly, my heart breaks for reasons unknown to me. Actually, no, it breaks because for that brief moment, there is no 'unknown'. Everything is clear. Including the fact that her eyes, those eyes that haven't left mine all night, are a mirror-image of every ounce of vulnerability I've felt this evening. For that moment, I don't see a woman whom my feelings for terrifies me; I see a woman whom my feelings for have allowed me to leave _her_ terrified. I didn't stop to consider that... that perhaps she took a leap into a minefield tonight too.

I take the little strength I have and lift my lips to her ear. "Tutti loro, Jennifer. Eppure nessuno di loro."

"What does that mask mean…" She grins, somehow still letting me have said mask even while picking it apart, and my eyes fall closed.

I, of course, chose a language that I knew she wasn't fluent in, but I think I genuinely thought – or hoped – that she'd let the answer be lost to the language barrier forever. Of course she didn't. Of course she didn't because we – she – crossed every barrier imaginable tonight, and, where she's been nothing but unguarded, I've yet to reassure her that the world is still spinning. I think because I've yet to allow myself to believe it.

Against my fears, and to quell hers, I repeat the English version of my response- "All of them, Jennifer. And yet none of them." -and when I open my eyes to find hers staring right through me, I want to run and I want to hide and I want to do anything that will force her to a safe distance and keep her there…

…but I realize I'd miss her. God, I'd miss her. I think I've always missed her. That's the problem with prisons: they keep you in, but they also keep others out. I've never truthfully wanted to keep her out, and now that's she's inside, I don't know that I'll ever want her to leave. I know, buried deep beneath the naïve stock I'm placing into this beautifully and deceptively clear moment, that I'll have to let her go, and I know that my compartmentalizing skills will allow me to easily do so, but I'm not grateful for that like I'm certain I should be. If anything, the prospect of returning to that emotionally deficient existence leaves me with an aching ball of emptiness in my gut.

"Thank you for allowing me to get close to you. For letting me see beyond the masks. Thank you for allowing me to see… _you_." Her words are whispers, somehow quieter than before, and the expression in her eyes has changed to something devastatingly final.

Encouraging her onto her side, I press my lips to her bare shoulder, envelope myself behind her and rest my hand against her tummy solely for its warmth. I'm not cold, but that gentle touch soothes me. Perhaps because I can feel her breathing… which, hopefully, when I wake will be what reassures me that this, even just for one night, was real. It did happen. I might not get to keep her – maybe I was never even supposed to have her in this capacity - but for one night, she was mine.

"I know you're certain you broke rule number one of the lesbian code, Emily… _Don't date or sleep with a seemingly straight girl_." I keep my face buried in her hair, but run my thumb over her tummy so that she knows I'm awake and listening. "But sometimes rules should be feared more than breaking them. I'll show you."

I want to tell her that any rules I've broken tonight are nothing to do with sexuality, and are more to do with something far more complex than that. But I let it lie. I don't need to hear a reassurance that will only make this harder – I don't want to read too much between gaping and yet blurred lines. Honestly, I don't care. The snow outside, the festive day that is already beginning, the burning naivety in my chest, can wait. Right now, the park is open. Right now, I'm letting myself enjoy the ride.

Tomorrow, I'll close it, and ensure it never opens to the public again.

**Don't worry:** She ain't gonna close the park, silly readers. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** The amount of reviews I received for my last update was amazing – you guys certainly know how to make a girl smile. :) I thanked most of you personally, but to those guest reviewers who I wasn't able to: thank you! It served as a great motivator, especially since this part of the story has been causing me some trouble. Please, keep 'em coming!

**Author's Note 2:** This chapter has been separated into two parts. I figured a 9000+ word count was just a little too much for a single update, and since we're approaching the part where some light will be shed on all of those questions Emily (and JJ) surely has, I didn't want any of the answers to get lost in a sea of random cuteness.

I look forward to hearing what you guys think. :) On with the story…

* * *

**Chapter Five: Part I:**

_**Christmas Day:**_

It's the scent of mint and rosemary that wakes me, soft hair tickling my nose as a warm mouth lingers somewhere against my chest, and my arms instinctively wrap tighter around her. The clock tells me I've been asleep just two hours, and the throbbing in my head reminds me how many units of alcohol I consumed last night, but no part of me wishes to go back to sleep. This moment is safe here, still shielded by darkness. In just two hours, the dawn will come and bath what I'm certain is a sin of some sort in far too many questions. I don't want those questions, not yet.

Surprisingly enough, this isn't the first time I've woken in this position. There was a case six months ago that caused JJ to unravel in ways I never thought possible. I'd always seen her so composed and unaffected until that point, but with sobs that I'm very certain she was trying to stifle with her comforter coming from the bed alongside mine, I'd only questioned it briefly before climbing in beside her and pulling her against my chest. My hands soothed through her soft-as-heaven hair much like they are now, while hers clutched at the shirt her tears were leaving small wet patches against. It's funny… I didn't say one word, no utterances of reassurance or comfort for fear that she'd see in every single one of those words just how much I loved her, but it took only minutes for her to relax and, soon after, sleep.

That night was never mentioned again, but the memory of waking to her nestled into the contours of my body never left me. There have been occasions since where she's walked by, and the scent of her shampoo has instantly transported me back to that night, that morning. Barely acknowledged at the time despite how debilitating those moments were, it's strange how I can place them now with full memory and feeling – place _every_ memory pertaining to her with full, vivid feeling. It's almost like I've been given permission to love her, to remember her and cherish her. But as I listen to those peaceful breaths falling against my flesh, I realize in the most sobering kind of way that I haven't. I _haven't_ been given that permission – I've been given the permission to love her physically, and even that was probably more alcohol-induced and taken advantage of than genuinely offered.

I'm disentangling myself from her before I even make it a conscious decision to do so, my feet padding across the carpet as she sleepily pulls the sheets up to her shoulders and curls into a fetal position. How can someone so innocent be the cause of such emotional hell? She isn't, of course, but it's easy to draw that correlation.

I locate aspirin and a bottle of water in my darkened kitchen, and knock them back like they're going to ease more than my headache. The still ignited fireplace in my living room mocks me, almost like it's the physical representation of my stupidity and/or the convictions I abandoned tonight. Because, just like that fire that was left to burn as it wished while I dabbled in sins of the flesh with a _colleague and friend_, nothing good could possibly result from it. What the _hell_ was I thinking?

There's an anger in my chest directed at myself as I flick the switch beside the fireplace, and there's a definite thud in my step as I return to the bedroom. But when I enter to find the most soothing blue eyes I've ever seen smiling at me, and tan fingers reaching for mine, all anger dissipates.

"We forgot to turn off the fire." I tell her as I - despite the certainty I should be doing anything but - climb back into bed and lay on my side, facing her.

"_I_ forgot to turn off the fire." She corrects me as she snuggles closer, and then sighs contently as she presses her lips to my hands. "But I think I can be forgiven when my Christmas wish was in the process of coming true."

"Your… your Christmas wish?"

"Mhmm." She nods sleepily, her eyes falling heavy as her nodding slows in a manner that tells me it wasn't voluntary. "You always were my Christmas wish, Emily. You just never saw it."

I can't tell if she's awake, or if I wasn't supposed to hear those whispered words… those words that are equal parts profound and _perfect_. Is this similar to the theory that alcohol makes people honest? Does being asleep make people honest too?

A smile naturally tugs at my lips as she rolls onto her side and pulls my arm around her, and I fall back to sleep that way: with a goofy grin on my face, and my hand once again pressed to her tummy like it's the only security blanket I ever needed to chase away the monsters I've always seemed to find beneath my bed.

**CM-CM-CM**

I open my eyes to an empty bed and snow falling outside of my window, and feel an engrained sense of hatred for it. I'd felt confident, just nine hours ago, that when I awoke, letting JJ go would be as simple as locking a box in my mind and getting on with my day – it always has been in the past. But as my clock radio plays that goddamn Christmas song that she was singing along to twelve hours ago - her pretty words resounding in my mind far louder than the gruff ones humming through the speakers - and the cold JJ-shaped indentation in my sheets mocks me, I realize it isn't going to be so simple this time. I realize I knew all along, somewhere behind my blind justifications, that it was _never_ going to be that simple. Because it's JJ…

It's _JJ_.

As my brain rouses fully, I'm bombarded with an uninvited image of waking in the middle of the night and falling back to sleep with a lullaby of fairytale words resounding in my mind, and I close my eyes tight shut like that will erase the memory. Really, all it does is paints it with more color and life. Was I really blind enough to assume that those words, those beautiful words, really meant that history wouldn't repeat? Did I really think that changed _anything_?

"You should turn the volume up."

My eyes snap open, but I don't turn towards the source of the sound – partially because I'm afraid that in my lovesick state, I'm imagining it. Or maybe I'm still dreaming… Either way, turning my head seems like the most detrimental thing I could do right now; the safest, to simply close my eyes and pretend I never heard a damn thing.

But when I feel a soft breeze against my face and hear that taunting song suddenly increase in volume, I dare a peek… I dare a peek and am met with the most flawless, tan thighs I have ever seen in my life. They're bare of the stockings now, but I don't mind. I want to reach out and touch them, but become embarrassingly aware of the fact that I'm pretty much staring directly at her crotch and shift my gaze further upwards, to a spot that is far safer considering I'm likely seconds from receiving some cliché line: _last night was fun, but that was last night and this is now_.

I'll let her have it, I know, and I won't fight her when she leaves. I'll keep my dignity, and we'll never speak again of what transpired last night. We'll be friends. We'll be colleagues. We'll-

"Do you have plans for today? I wasn't sure…" She crouches to my level and brushes the sleep-tousled hair from my face. "I was a little concerned when I woke that I'd disrupted them by staying the night." She frowns guiltily, and then looks back to me with a grimace. "I'm sorry."

And without thought, I reach out to erase that frown. It has no business marring her face. "No plans. At least not until we head to Hotch's this evening."

Hotch's big Christmas dinner. It's been tradition ever since Haley died, and one that I've been equal parts grateful for and dreading of. On one hand, it provides distraction from a typically mundane and, often, soul-sucking day, but on the other, it's exhausting to watch couples upon couples enjoying the festivities while sneaking pitying looks to the single girl. Reid has even been known to bring a date.

But, whether it's for positive or negative reasons, I know that this year is going to be different. It's either going to be undoubtedly awkward to face those pitying looks when the only other single person in the room is someone who shared my bed just hours before, or it's going to be-

"So you…" She chews her lip, much like she was just last night, and this time, I _do_ soothe it with my thumb. But it only takes one second for her teeth, undeterred by my efforts, to pick up their assault once more, and I barely have the chance to analyze her clearly unnerved demeanor before she's giving me all the findings in one quick tirade. "Look, Emily… I don't tend to sleep with a person that I don't foresee myself having any kind of a future with, and I've known you to have casual relationships in the past. Not that I'm judging…" She frowns sharply. "Oh god, I'm not judging… I just-I mean..." She slows, sighs, and then looks back to me with determined eyes. "Emily, if you want me to leave, you need to tell me that. Because, truthfully, I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing with my day than staying in this bed with you… But I can't afford to get more attached than I already allowed myself to. I broke a self-imposed rule last night, a rule that was in place for a very good reason, and I can handle that. But probably not if I go any further."

I try to stop it but I'm helpless to the dorky little smile that emerges on my face. I can tell she's trying to work out if I'm mocking her, or whether it's a genuinely positive reaction, and I run my hand from her cheek to her neck, and then graze my knuckles along the top of her breast in the hopes that that will give her a better idea. A shaky breath spills from her lips as I bite back that grin that I just _know_ is making me look like a love-struck teenager… Not a look I typically adorn, but I also don't typically wake with a beautiful woman in my room on Christmas morning either. Well, not a beautiful woman who is both capable of and has no intention of continuing my Christmas curse.

"Emily…" She, with what I can tell is reluctance, takes my wrist and stills my movements, her voice wavering but firm. "Please don't do that unless you mean it."

"I mean it." I reassure quickly, leaning forward to press my lips briefly to hers. "I _mean_ it."

She tentatively releases my wrist and gives my hand permission to wander, and I slip it beneath the silk of _my_ robe as every single one of my questions and doubts and fears and dumb rules fade from memory… Why did I ever allow them to dictate my life? I feel like a smoker who just quit thirty years after picking up the habit. I feel _free_.

With my encouragement, she discards the robe and climbs beneath the comforter to straddle my waist, and I run my palms the whole length of her thighs, her hips, her sides, and back to her breasts. God, she makes the most beautiful sounds. They're not what I'd expected… But then I didn't allow myself to expect or dream up anything – sometimes the fantasies are as dangerous as the reality check. Sometimes the fantasies are what make the reality check so damaging.

Pushing back the comforter fully, I reach up to tangle my fingers in her disheveled, golden hair and pull her down. Her breasts brush against mine as she kisses me, deep and sincere, and the needy sound it pushes from my lips causes me to freeze. Allowing this to happen last night could easily be blamed on the alcohol. Right now, and whenever this fantasy falls apart, all I have to fall back on are the blinding and often traitorous desires of the heart. A justification that won't mean a damn when I come to recognize that I'm still ignoring gaping holes in just _how_ this fantasy became mine to hold.

"Ask the questions…" She whispers, reading me like the book I apparently am to her. "Emily, ask the questions…"

I try to read her eyes, but I soon realize that I'm not searching for honesty, but attempting to _erase_ it - mostly because I'm struggling to believe it's there. It makes no sense. I don't trust this world where I can trust _her_ – or, rather, trust someone with my heart. It's so much easier when there's a line, when you know someone or something is bad for you, or can at least hold yourself convinced enough of that to stay away. Being practically certain that she is anything _but_ bad for me is a scary place to find myself.

"I need to shower…" My eyes drop, even as my hands clasp hers together against my chest, almost like I'm utilizing them to pray for the courage to live this moment. And if I'm going to ask those questions, I do need the courage. Fuck, I need to be more awake than I am right now to make the decision on whether I even _should_ ask those questions. I look back to her. "Is that okay?"

"That's okay." She nods, a smile in her eyes that validates the authenticity of her words, and I press my lips briefly to hers before I, somewhat reluctantly, climb out of bed.

When I return from the bathroom, she isn't in the bed where I left her and I think I'm glad. Clearly I don't think straight when a bed and JJ are combined. Apparently that's far worse kryptonite than those stockings… Those stockings that, with a smile, I find are no longer haphazardly strewn across the carpet, but purposely draped over the corner of the mirror where, in red lipstick, _I've got a feeling, this year's for me and you xo, _is written. It'll be quite some time before I recognize the relevance of those words, but in that moment, they sound perfect regardless.

Ruffling the towel in my hair, I toss it over a chair as I leave the bedroom and follow the scent of coffee down the stairs. She's stood in my kitchen, her own hair damp, telling me she utilized my guest bathroom, and my heart swells at the sight: she looks like she belongs.

"Your hosiery doesn't belong on my mirror, Jareau." I grin, and she turns with a mug of coffee in her hands and a certain air of smugness curling at her lips.

"Yes it does." She slips her bottom lip between her teeth, before eventually turning away with a shake of her head and pours an extra cup of coffee. "Do you feel better for your shower?"

"Much." I reply and take the mug she offers me. "Would you like some breakfast?"

She quirks her eyebrow. "I already checked your cupboards, but the fact you live like a frat boy is the reason you didn't have pancakes waiting for you when you were done with your shower. Thus, Emily, just what are you planning to feed me if I answer yes to that question?"

I shift my eyes around my kitchen, and then lower my lips to my mug to conceal the smirk that proves her point. "Cereal."

She chuckles, with something akin to fondness in her eyes - apparently my living like a frat boy is a _good_ thing. "Maybe after this we can head to the store. Walmart are terrible to their employees, so I'm _very_ certain they wouldn't close for a silly reason like it being Christmas Day."

"And your solution to that is to become an enabler?"

"I'm a bitch when I'm hungry." She responds unapologetically, takes one last sip of her drink and places it to the counter behind her. As she walks by, she leans over and presses her lips to mine. "And it's sacrilege to start Christmas Day off without pancakes."

As I watch her walk away, I want to call after her that there are far worse ways to start Christmas Day than sans pancakes, but I'm certain that would lead us right back to the conversation she so graciously allowed me to take a rain check on. It's not time for that, I realize – it's time for _pancakes_. And while there really are worse ways to start this day, I struggle to think of any possible better ways.

**CM-CM-CM**

Thirty minutes later, as we wander the aisles in search of pancake ingredients, I can't keep the smile from my face.

When she disappeared to ready herself for our trip to the store, I guess it occurred to her that the dress she wore last night isn't really Walmart-appropriate, because she returned soon after wearing my favorite t-shirt and jeans that - as I've come to realize several times in the past couple minutes - are a little too big for her. Every time she pulls them up and shuffles her hips in the vain hopes that they'll stay in place, I have to hold back my amusement - I'm certain my bottom lip has a permanent imprint of my teeth etched into it for the amount of times I've bitten down on it to suppress my apparent lack of maturity.

"Stop laughing." She hisses as she, with one hand holding her pants up, grabs flour from the top shelf.

This, of course, gives permission to every ounce of laughter I've been withholding. "I _wasn't_ laughing."

"You were in your head." She turns and narrows her eyes at me, and for a moment I find myself in total awe that _this_ is how I wound up spending Christmas Day. I never could have predicted it, even if it was one half of a 50/50 chance.

I bite my lip again, this time to quash my smile rather than my laughter, and hold out my hands in surrender. "Okay. You got me there. But I'm not laughing _at_ you."

"You're certainly not laughing _with_ me." She replies, even as she – blatantly – laughs.

"Are you sure about that?" I grin as I step up behind her, my hands resting at the waist of those pesky jeans that just won't stay in place. Pressing my lips to her hairline, I whisper, "I think there's a teeny tiny part of you that at least wants to smile."

She doesn't smile. In fact, as she sinks back against me and turns her head just enough to brush her cheek against my neck, her expression turns to one of sincerity. Her eyes close, and when she speaks, her voice is nothing more than a whisper. "They're idiots, Emily. Whoever made you fear this holiday. Whoever made you fear _this_."

My fingers brace a little tighter at her hips as the memories of years past rush in to drown this beautiful peace I seem to have found. It isn't the visual memories that haunt me, because if you think about something enough times it eventually begins to lose its bite - it's simply the memory of how it _felt_ at the time. It's the knowledge that I allowed myself to be _that_ vulnerable and open to damage. How can you ever trust yourself again at that point? She's so certain they're idiots, but isn't it technically me who's the idiot?

I drop my chin to place a kiss against her shoulder. I don't know how to respond, and I certainly don't know how to respond _here_. But when she speaks again in an upbeat tone-

"Would you like chocolate chip pancakes or plain?"

-I realize that she knows that, even without me having to say anything. Furthermore, she's allowing it. She's giving me the same room to grow that she did back in my bedroom; the same room to grow that, I now realize, is the real reason behind this little trip to the store.

She asked me last night why I trivialize that which is supposed to be sincere, and I think I just found the answer: because I've learnt enough times that if you make everything a joke, it isn't so much of a tragedy when you come to realize that, even before you trivialized it, it was all one big joke anyway. And in learning that answer, I find another question: what if trivializing those things is what, in the end, ensures they _do_ wind up insignificant?

I don't want her to wind up insignificant. I don't want her to be another memory; a memory of a feeling; a memory of a feeling strong enough to coerce me into making her insignificant. I realize, in the middle of that almost empty store, that it's a cycle, and a cycle only I can break.

_I will ask them_, I silently promise her, _but not in the middle of Walmart_.

Spinning her in my arms, I press a chaste kiss to her lips. "Chocolate chip."

"Good choice." She grins and grabs a bag of chocolate chips from the shelf, before turning on her heel towards the checkouts.

For every step we take out of that store, I continue to suppress a giggle for the jeans that continually slip from her hips. And for every burst of laughter that makes it through, I find myself wondering if this beautiful fantasy really could be a long-term reality…


	6. Chapter 6

**(Uber long) Author's Note: **I'm hoping to get the remaining chapters out to you guys before I go to New York, so you should have the next few updates fairly quickly. I actually had this whole story written before I began uploading it, but a last minute change to this chapter caused a chain reaction that meant I had to make changes further along in the story too. I think I've resolved all issues now though.

I'm a little afraid that some of you are going to think that I should have simply ended any 'conflicting' issues in the last chapter, where Emily says that all her fears and dumb rules etc fade from memory. But… I just couldn't force myself to believe that enough to be able to write it. Mostly because, as Emily realizes, her issues don't just go away simply because JJ wants something more long-term with her.

Also, I spent longer than I care to admit attempting to "redeem" JJ in this chapter, and then I realized: she's human. Humans fuck up. Humans make silly moves, especially when they don't even know the rules of the game they're playing. So I instead focused my attention on getting Emily to recognize that. I guess, actually, on getting them to both realize that they're both human and they both have flaws. Hopefully I pulled it off without making Emily look like a pushover… That's my biggest concern for this update, so please, let me know what you think. Thank you!

Lastly… If there are any questions I didn't answer in this chapter – aside from _what did JJ say to Will? _– please let me know. I tried to tie off every loose end in that regard, but in the thick of attempting to figure out why everything wasn't flowing right, there's a chance I may have missed something obvious.

**Oh wait:** One of you guys asked if there will be a chapter written from JJ's POV and I totally forgot about it until now. Sorry! Unfortunately, there won't, but she does answer a lot of questions in this chapter which will hopefully give some insight as to where her thoughts/feelings lie.

* * *

**Chapter Five: Part II**

Back at my apartment, she banishes me from the kitchen while she gets to work on our belated breakfast. I watch from the couch, my arms folded against the backrest and my chin atop of them. She moves around fluidly, like she knows the layout. I realize that's equal parts attributed to the fact that she's an honorary profiler, and because, as she told me, she searched my cupboards already. But I can't help but tell myself there's some deeper meaning to it.

This is all backwards, I know. Even if last night – seemingly - wasn't a mistake, I still feel it should have happened differently. I should have taken her out on a real date, instead of, in a roundabout way, gatecrashing someone else's. But then, isn't it true that that _never_ would have happened? Isn't it true that, at no point, would I or did I ever consider simply asking her out on a date? Isn't it true that sometimes you have to do things a little backwards in order to find the courage to do them at all? And look where we are…

I watch her, and I want her, want this. I want her bossing me around and barring me from my own kitchen so she can ensure that I eat better than the cereal I'm in good supply of; I want her leaving messages on my mirror in lipstick that's going to be a giant pain to remove; I want her strutting around my apartment in nothing but her stockings just because she knows it's the perfect way to wrap me around her little finger. I want her lecturing me in the middle of grocery stores and wearing my clothes. And… I think I get to _have_ that. I think, if I want it, it's right there in my kitchen – all I have to do is find the courage to take nine steps forward and claim it.

But while this fairytale is great… it was never _about_ JJ. I didn't avoid affection as a result of unrequited love; I avoided it because it's messy and _devastating_. Love replaces you, and I can't afford to lose myself like that again. That fear doesn't magically go away just because the princess decides you're her Prince Charming – if anything, it magnifies it.

Because if this - whatever it is between her and I - is as genuine and significant as so many parts of me are beginning to believe, there is going to come a day where I have to tell her things. I'm going to have to tell her about that "desk job" they think I came off of; I'm going to have to tell her about that life I snuffed out in my teenage years; she's going to have to see _me, properly_. Otherwise, what's the point in doing it at all? Why exchange one charade for another?

Furthermore… is untangling that web of complications _worth it_? Clearly I have issues, and I can't help but feel that sifting through those issues will wind up damaging or losing me said fairytale anyway. I don't want to damage her. I don't want to damage myself. But watching from afar, as she makes herself at home and I struggle to make a decision that shouldn't even be a decision, I can't deny that maybe I already damaged myself. More than that, that she is vital in fixing myself. With her, I'm not an accumulation of pieces that vary from non-existent to fucked-up – I'm just Emily. With her, I get to be Emily – _whoever_ that is.

When she drops a _glass_ bowl of pancake mixture to my _grossly expensive_ marble floor, she stares at it for five whole seconds with her hands outstretched, before turning slowly to face me with a combination of guilt and hopefulness in her half-smile, half-grimace-

"I'm sorry!"

-and a laugh I hadn't expected bursts from my lips. I don't own this apartment, and I'm pretty sure – if the look on her face is anything to go by – that she just cost me my deposit… and apparently that's _funny_. Apparently, in the past twenty-four hours, I lost my ability to be outraged towards anything.

"I didn't break the bowl." She promises as she grabs a dish towel and sinks down out of my line of sight – which, of course, is totally reassuring to hear because that $10 bowl is _exactly_ what I was concerned about.

"All is right with the world then." I reply as I push myself up, and the look she tosses me as I wander into the kitchen tells me the playful nature of my words isn't at all easing her guilt.

I survey the damage and cock my head to the side, amused. Besides the cracked marble, the whole bottom half of _my_ jeans is covered in cream-colored splatter, as is most of the lower portion of my kitchen. Honestly, it looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy's slaughter site. And she… she looks like perfection. Yeah… I _want_ this. Probably sans the giant chip that I'm going to have to explain to my landlord, but I think I want this.

"You should probably remove your pants right there before you trek pancake mix through the rest of my apartment." I smirk, and she blushes. I have to say, after what she wandered around wearing – or _not_ wearing – last night, I'm surprised.

"I can't do that." She says quietly, her eyes imploring me to understand why without her having to explain, but I just shake my head. "I'm not wearing _panties_, Emily. Cos, well, it's one thing stealing your clothes but I didn't think you'd take too kindly to me stealing your underwear."

_Now_ I get why she was so overly concerned about her pants slipping from her hips in Walmart – and, of course, find it a whole world funnier. "You can't remove your jeans because you're not wearing panties…" I chuckle. "Do you really think I'd be so opposed to that?"

With a small, uncertain frown on her face, she watches me for a moment, and then says, "I don't know." Her eyes remain locked with mine, no doubt waiting for some kind of repercussion to the implications in her words. One, two, three seconds pass, and then, having seemingly found regret for redirecting us back to complicated territory, she shakes her head and shifts her focus to the mess on the floor. "I should probably fix this mess."

Using the dish towel in her hand, she shepherds the mixture into a more manageable pile, and I take a steadying breath and allow myself to sink to the floor, a puddle of eggs and flour lingering between us. I place a hand against hers to still her efforts, and wait for her to look up. "Or we could fix the other mess, before it becomes a bigger mess."

At first, she doesn't move, apparently a little caught off-guard that I'm being so bold. I'm sure she expected that she'd either have to force the answers upon me, or that I'd never ask the questions and it – and we - would eventually fade into non-existence. I think I expected that too. But there's just something so candid about this whole scenario that, strangely, calms me.

Finally, cautiously, she slinks back from her kneeling position and waits for me to speak. And I wait for my brain to catch up with the move my autopilot just made. It's baffling how easily I transitioned into that which – two hours ago – I literally removed myself from, but apparently I no longer know what I want to ask.

As I rummage through the unorganized mental debris from last night and this morning, I happen upon that one question of the night that never really did get an answer, and ride it back to the present. "Why did you ditch Will?"

Her eyebrows raise, like she's surprised I haven't already deduced the answer to that question. When she realizes that I'm asking sincerely, she looks me square in the eye and tells me, "Because I wanted you. Ever since you joined the team I… I've _always_ wanted you."

_Always?_ _As in before last night? As in… not just as a result of last night?_ Perhaps I should have gathered before now that there was more to this than an "accidental" one-night stand, but with those handful of words, a few memories of others that she's offered me in the past twenty-four hours shoot to the forefront of my mind: _More times than you'll ever believe_. _I hoped they were for you. I don't sleep with someone I don't foresee myself having some kind of a future with._ _You always were my Christmas wish, Emily._

And as I find myself spiraling into every memory I have of her _prior_ to that point – every memory that, from this new perspective, definitely corroborates her words – I shake my head to dispel the fog of confusion that seems to have consumed it. "Then why did you go on that date with him? Why did you invite me? Of _all_ people."

She opens her mouth and then grimaces slightly, like she already knows her answer isn't going to be well-received. "That question doesn't carry a simple answer, Emily."

Looking to the clock above the cooker, I turn back to her. "We have a couple of hours until Hotch is expecting us. _Try_ me."

Her gaze lifts slowly to mine, and eventually she allows herself to sink back fully until her back is against the cupboard behind her. She rests her elbows on her knees and fixes her eyes on the half-dirtied dish towel that she fumbles between her fingers, and I try to remember the last time she looked so unsure of herself. Even this morning, there was some kind of confidence within her. Right now, she looks like it's _her_ fairytale that's about to take a few damaging or annihilating hits.

"You're so unattainable, Emily." She finally says. "I've never known someone capable of being so sincerely present and so sincerely distant all at the same time."

She looks back to me, smiling in that way she does where the curl of her lips doesn't quite match the emotion in her eyes. It's a middle ground between media-wrangling JJ, and too-human-for-the-job-she-does JJ – I hate being in its crosshairs, and I'm grateful when she looks away.

"In the beginning, I genuinely thought you felt something for me. But it seemed that whenever I gave any indication that I wanted you, you shut down. The closer I got, the further you became. But the further I got, the closer you became."

She frowns, as if she's still baffled by that now. I know she's not. I know after my disclosure about my past relationships, she gets it. But that doesn't remedy the fact that I can see, written all over her face, how much I've hurt her – and the worst part is that I didn't even know I was doing it. I hate that push-pull game. It's cruel and it's cowardly. But to defend myself and tell her what she's saying isn't true would be a lie. Because I _did_ do that. In hindsight, I can see it as clear as day.

"Then six months ago…" She continues. "I resigned myself to the fact that maybe the reason you didn't see how I felt about you was because you had no reason to. You weren't looking for it, or hoping for it… and it was damaging enough to my ego and my heart that I'd been so arrogant to ever think you _could_ be, that I drew a solid line between us as friends and colleagues, and us as whatever my fantasies wanted us to be. I made you, as a rule, off-limits. And last night, I made you an exception to that rule."

A single breath bursts from my lips, and I'm unsure whether it's a laugh or simply the air deflating from my lungs. The irony is so astounding that I don't even have a smartass remark for it. How can I call myself the elite of my profession and not have known that for every second I was banishing my feelings for her, she was growing more and more certain that they just didn't _exist_?

I spent the whole of last night convinced that _I_ was the one in the vulnerable position, _I_ was the one compromising myself, _I_ was the one blindly following where my heart led… but, actually, it was her. _She_ was the one taking a chance on me. She really did break a self-imposed rule, and – _god_ – me kissing her in that alley must have been torture.

She had no real certainty of how I felt about her; of whether kissing her was just another move in the game I've seemingly been playing; of whether I was going to wake up this morning distant and robotic; of whether I was just further screwing with her heart… and yet she came home with me and took that chance. And she didn't do it by half either, no parts or pieces of herself held close to her chest just in case she never got them back. She risked something as defenseless as her heart, and she did it _whole_heartedly. For me.

Her voice dragging me back to the present, she concludes, "I went on that date with him, and you, hoping to find closure. You didn't want me, and I had to force myself to accept that. I had to place myself in a position where that was indisputable. He's the first person since I developed feelings for you that I could actually see myself with, and I think I hoped that last night would finally close a book that I never really understood, but couldn't willingly stop reading."

The words are like a fist to the heart… I came that close to losing her, and I didn't even know I _had_ her. What am I supposed to feel right now? Because I have no fucking clue… How is a person _supposed_ to feel when they realize that such a huge portion of their life has been a lie, and a lie they told themselves? Making the significant insignificant… making _her_ insignificant, which she never was. How do I tell her that now? After three years, how do I tell her that?

"But in that bathroom…" She continues, and my attention snaps to her, only half of me wanting to hear any more of this story. "With your hands in mine while you told me you were going to _leave_ to give Will and I alone time… I wanted to cry. The thought of you leaving made me want to _cry_. The thought of spending the next three years pretending that I didn't want you made me want to _cry_. And in that moment I realized that the only person I could foresee a future with was you. That's why I _ditched Will_, as you put it." She looks to me. "Because I never should have gone on that date with him in the first place."

I think story time is over, but in a sea of conflicting thoughts and emotions, I have no idea what I'm supposed to say. I think I'm supposed to be happy that the reason she's still here right now isn't simply an effort to tell herself at a later date that she at least gave her drunken mistake a chance, but that emotion is buried beneath questions – so many questions – that make my brain hurt beyond logic.

"Six months ago…" I muse out loud. "Did that- I mean…" I swallow. "Was that anything to do with me climbing into your bed? I'm sorry if that was another case of me misleading you. Or…" I roll my eyes – I guess it wasn't really _mis_leading. "Just adding more complication to the situation."

"Actually…" She shakes her head and smiles. "No. I needed that. Sometimes that _is_ what you need, ya know? For someone to just _do_. To cross a boundary. If you'd asked if I needed anything, I would have told you I was fine, and I think we both know I was far from fine. What you did, was what I needed." She keeps her eyes locked with mine until she's satisfied that I believe her words, and then she redirects her gaze to the towel between her hands and continues. "It was actually two days after that. You'd just gotten done explaining to me why you had to rain-check our movie night for a third time, and Morgan saw me falter. Damn profilers… There was no evading the issue at that point."

"Morgan?" Apparently that's enough to snap me from my somewhat dazed state, and I shoot a look to her. "Morgan _knows_?"

"Morgan knows everything." She nods, almost regretfully. "He's somewhat become my… sponsor, in getting over you."

I almost choke on my own breath. He's helping her to _get over_ me? Like I'm a drug and she's the addict… Why wouldn't he just _tell me_ how she feels? Of course, the answer comes to me immediately: just like I imagined he was protecting me last night, he was also protecting JJ. _From_ me. From the emotionally distant person I've allowed myself to become. JJ isn't that way. JJ wears her heart on her sleeve and, consequently, it's open for damage. Damage that I would inflict… And maybe he's not totally unjustified. What can I really offer her?

"And after we left the restaurant. You said you wanted to get drunk…" I look to her, and I know there's something unjustly defensive in my tone. But there's nothing like learning you were _wrong_ about so much to bring about the irrational. "Was that my fault too? Did I make you want to get drunk?"

"None of this is your _fault_, Emily." She responds quickly, sincerely. "This isn't a blame game. You wanted to know, and so I'm telling you. I'm not criticizing you. Because I get it… I _do_."

I don't say a word, and she must realize that I'm still waiting for an answer, because after a moment she sighs and continues.

"Wanting to get drunk was a search for courage. And I certainly needed it in order to be honest with you – especially after I learnt that you had very good reason to avoid romantic situations. I tried several times, and yet every time I looked at you I froze. I became so afraid that I'd lose you entirely." She pauses for so long that I think she's done, but then, out of nowhere, she looks back to me and smiles fully – smiles like her Christmas wish really did come true. "And then you kissed me, and I found my courage."

I stare, blankly, dumbly, _dumbfounded_. The events of last night play on repeat in my mind, like I'm watching a movie for a second time and finally noticing everything I missed. Except this isn't a movie – this is my _life_ and I was totally clueless to its narrative. And something tells me I'm going to have to replay it quite a few more times before I finally recognize all of those pivotal points in the plot.

"I think I fucked up, Emily." She randomly says, and her tone has changed. There is no media-wrangling glint to her expression now, just a too-human-for-_me_ one. "I think in letting last night happen, in not enforcing this conversation _before_ it happened, I've given you more reason to fear affection and that was _never_ my intention." She drops the dish towel and shifts both hands to palm away the tears against her cheeks, almost in frustration, like she doesn't feel she has the right to those tears. "I'm not them, Emily. I know… it's easy for me to say that, right? Because I'm sure they said or implied it at some point too. Everyone always does. But I'm _not_."

"I know that." I say, even without deciding to, and I'm shocked at how much I mean the words. "I know you're not."

"Do you?" She asks. "You can't possibly, at least not yet. Not right now. Because right now it looks as though I tricked you to get a rise out of you."

It kind of does, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't placing conscious effort into forcing myself to remember just who this woman is. She isn't manipulative, not like that; she's just human. And how can I even begin to allow myself to feel tricked by her when I've technically been tricking her and myself for the past three years? How can I when I gave her no real reason to believe that last night was a difficult position for me to be in? Or even any real reason to believe that if she were to outright tell me of her feelings years ago, I'd have been positively or objectively responsive?

"But when I consider the fact that you gave me closure, in the form of being happy for me to be with another person, and yet everything still felt so painfully open for me… How can I then say that my motives _were_ pure?" She looks at me determined, seemingly taking accountability for something _I'm_ not even sure she did wrong. "I don't think I was searching for closure, Emily. I think I was just searching for you."

And there it is… that arguably reckless honesty that I've always found in her. It's what makes me trust her without hesitation; it's what, in this moment, she's certain will be the catalyst strong enough to push me away entirely. Because who admits that? Who admits that they're human and that they fuck up at a point where they should probably be selling themselves as the epitome of perfection? Her, apparently.

Instinctively, I reach out and slide her towards me by her knees. One of my legs remain outstretched, curved around her as a security blanket of sorts, as my hands shift to her hips. She seems so small in this position, and I feel like I hurt a baby bird. It's terribly ironic though… who knew that I'd hurt her more by keeping my distance than letting her see that I'm totally flawed? No… who knew that I'd hurt _myself_ more by doing that?

"Happy is a complex term, JJ." I tell her, and her eyes lift slowly, tentatively. "Was I happy that the guy I was certain had your heart was decent and kind rather than being a total douchebag? Yes. Was I happy to have to sit and watch you be happy with someone other than me… In some ways, yes; in selfish ways, no."

"In some ways yes?" She asks, and my mind instantly jumps back to my earlier musings about exchanging one mask for another.

There really is so much that she doesn't know about me, including the fact that I just realized in the most sobering kind of way that that is part of the reason for my botched past relationships. I mean, I didn't coerce them into bed with their ex, or their best friend, or their fucking secretary; but climbing into bed with a robot each night is a pretty good incentive to look elsewhere. For so long, I blamed my failed romantic endeavors on that monster we call love. It's impossible now. Couldn't it be argued that I'm my own monster?

"I don't know what I can give you, JJ." I finally respond, and though I hadn't consciously decided upon saying it, and though I don't _want_ to be saying it, it is exactly what needed to be said. It is one of the few things I know to be absolute truth in this moment.

"…I know." She nods, something authentically compassionate in her eyes, and reaches out to cup her hand at my cheek. "And that's okay."

_Is it? If it's so okay, why do I feel like I just cut off my own limb or carved out my own insides? _I find myself searching for honesty in her eyes again, solely so I can erase it. Perhaps if she tells me it's not okay, I'll be able to snap myself out of this stale state and offer us both the chance for something more than this cliché ending. But she looks so sincere, so considerate; placing my conflict above anything, just like she _always_ does. Why can't she just tell me it's not okay? Because it's _not_. This isn't how it's supposed to be.

As my eyes remain on her, searching, hers find determination that I don't want to see. Because it tells me that she's about to utilize that age-old theory that if you love something you have to set it free, and I don't want her to do that because I'm not certain I'll find the courage to return to her.

I feel her moving even before she does, small twitches of muscle beneath my fingertips that cause a burst of panic to consume every inch of me. But when her hands settle against my shoulders and she shifts into a kneeling position, she stops, and I'm grateful. I'm not ready for her to leave…

She's looking at me exactly how I looked at her for most of last night – like she knows she's playing a dangerous game, but that she just can't stop playing. Her eyes shine like the marble beneath us, fixed on my lips like she's trying to talk herself down; and when she kisses me, it's hesitant, _terrified_. I feel a breath rush from her lips and fan against mine; hear the devastation in it, the goodbye that she doesn't want to be offering.

And when I pull back and see a hurricane of emotion in her eyes I – without logical thought that, let's be honest, doesn't belong here - place my hand to the back of her head and kiss her in a way that is nothing short of desperate. It _is_ desperate. _I'm_ desperate. I need back whatever voodoo she worked last night; I need back the parts of me she returned to me last night. I need to remember what it's like to be the carefree Emily that once existed, before my very own series of unfortunate events warped that person beyond recognition. She reminds me of that person. She reminds me I'm still capable of being that person. She makes me believe that I really could be that human-being that lurks beneath my superhero persona.

I _want_ to be that human. I don't want our fairytale to end here.

Her arms link around my neck as she kisses me like she's just been given another shot at life; and mine latches across her waist as I - with little care for the still untouched mess on my kitchen floor - lower her backwards. She melds into the contours of my body, a piece of my puzzle, clutching and pulling and grasping with a similar desperation to the one coursing through my own veins. Perhaps we're both searching for the same thing…

But almost at the same time, we both realize that this isn't the way to find it. My hand stills against her stomach, its journey downward thwarted by conscience, and hers move to my arms and grip at my shirt: a silent, collective _stop_.

Her eyes are closed, her breaths struggling to catch up with her now still state. And as I look down at her, I watch a stray tear slip from the corner of her eye and follow it into her hairline, and wonder if there really is a way out of this maze that I built around myself. She found her way in here, didn't she? Doesn't that surely mean that there's a way out?

When she eventually opens her eyes, her gaze wanders, as if taking in our positioning, and then she swallows and says, "You literally have the upper hand, Emily. You did last night; I gave it to you, in every capacity. When it comes to me, you always had it. If this is the game you're afraid it is, then you're the reigning champion…" Frowning, she shakes her head slowly. "But I don't want to be your opponent."

The woman who makes a living off of words… has such a heartbreaking way with words. Because she's right. It doesn't take a profiler to comb through the events of last night and see that every single move she made was giving _me_ the upper hand. And now that I'm more aware, it also doesn't take a profiler to see that for every day of the past three years, I've been the one in control. _Suffocating_ control. She's bared herself to me in every sense of the word, even when I gave nothing in return. She still is – even when I'm physically refusing to let her go, and at the same time offering nothing to prove that I want her to stay.

I don't know where this story goes from here... I don't know what she'll find between my pages, and I don't know if there could possibly be a happy ending. But I can't let _this_ be how it ends. Our conclusion can't be a tornado of uncertainties that just agree to disagree and go their separate ways.

"I really don't know what I can give you, JJ…" I tell her. "More than that, I… I don't know if I'm afraid of giving you too little, or of giving you too much."

It's only when I say that that I realize how true it is, because I'm not sure I have a middle ground anymore. At this point in my life, with the history that precedes me, she's either going to get all or nothing… neither of which, in my experience, is a good basis for a successful relationship.

"But I think I'd like to try…" I lift my eyes slowly to meet hers, hoping that that's even my decision to make, and that she hasn't made one already that doesn't involve me and the many complications that tag along with me. "I know I'm three years late… but am I too late and offering too little for us to try?"

Through her tears, she smiles; a small burst of air leaving her lips that speaks of relief. I know that it's relief because, as soon as I heard it, I felt relief too.

"Oh thank god for that." She places her palm against her forehead, her eyes closed, and when she looks back to me, there's something in her eyes strikingly similar to that which we see in the eyes of relatives when we tell them we managed to save their loved ones. "I was prepared to do it if that's what you needed but… Do you have any idea how _crushing_ the prospect of walking out of here and never knowing you in this way again was?"

"About as crushing as the prospect of _letting_ you walk out of here." I smile.

It's one of those moments that seem absurdly beautiful, so flawless that it shouldn't be taking place in the real world. For three whole seconds, it is untainted and perfect. But as I shift my hand to push myself up, and accidentally place it directly in a puddle of pancake batter, I'm reminded that it's arguably more absurd than beautiful. My landlord is going to _kill_ me. And… were we _really_ going to have sex on this floor?

As I purposely lift my hand to JJ's line of sight, she throws her head back and laughs in that utterly free-spirited way she was just last night… and the moment finds its perfection once more. I think I'd take lying on the kitchen floor in a mixture of pancake batter while watching JJ laugh any day over any cringe-worthy scene fiction could dream up.

"I guess we probably should clean this mess up, huh?" I grin, then lean into her ear with a whisper. "And for the record, Jennifer. I have absolutely no qualms about you walking around my apartment without panties."

She groans and presses her lips to my ear to return my whisper. "For the record, Emily. I have absolutely no qualms about you using my given name."

"Is that so?" I quirk my eyebrow. "I'll have to make a note of that."

"Yeah, you do that." She smirks, and then pushes her hand into my chest in a not-so subtle hint. "Now, let's get this mess cleaned up before I lose you the apartment that your inner perv is hopeful I'll strut around sans underwear."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **If you don't know what Christmas Crackers are – that's what Google is for. ;) They're a Christmas tradition in England but during my years here I've come to realize that they're not widely used in the US. So, as I said, if you're unsure: Google. Probably before you read this chapter.

**Also:** I've once again gotten a little creative with the timeline in that the whole sin-to-win conundrum obviously popped up much later in the series than this story is set. I'll be honest, I have no idea what a sin-to-win weekend in Atlantic City is – but apparently I think it's something that would make Derek Morgan's eyes bulge. (side note: if anyone _does_ know what it is, you'd be answering a question that has bugged me for five seasons and it would be _much_ appreciated.)

* * *

**Chapter Six: Part I:**

It takes almost a full roll of paper towels to clean up her little accident – and that's just to get the mix into the trash can. I'm certain I'm going to be finding little creamed-colored splatters against my cupboards for months, and I have absolutely no doubt that – just like my belt buckle – it's going to make me think of her.

According to the way in which I generally live my life, allowing her into my personal space was a mistake – if the safe haven of my own home has been compromised, just how do I get away from her if this happens to fall apart? Her scent is everywhere, her touch, the sound of her laughter… Her ghost will linger long after she's gone. Everything is tainted with her, but when I look at her, I can't deny that everything is _beautifully_ tainted with her. There's life here now that wasn't before, and the prospect of that life haunting me long after the source has died is just a chance I have to take. A chance I should have had the balls to take a long time ago, because what's the point in living if there is no _life_?

"Ya know, it's a shame." She says as she throws the dirtied dish towels into the washing machine. "I really did want to make you pancakes."

"There'll be other chances." I smile.

"Yeah but… I wanted to give you a _good_ memory of this day." Bracing her hands behind her at the lip of the counter, she smirks and shrugs. "Instead, you have the memory of me smashing a two inch hole into your kitchen floor."

Laughing, I dry off my hands and toss the towel to the counter, before stepping in front of her and resting my hands at her hips. Truthfully, I think that's a better memory. I never was one for conventional, and though I'm sure her pancakes would have been delicious, I actually prefer the ridiculous memory I now have thanks to them never seeing fruition. Besides, isn't it oddly poetic? Just what about her and I has, so far, been conventional?

Leaning in to brush my lips against hers, I find myself stopping abruptly and smirking when something occurs to me – maybe it's time to create some new traditions. "You want cereal?" I wink. "I have plenty."

With a hint of fond disapproval in her eyes, she laughs, and then agrees, and five minutes later sees us perched upon my kitchen island eating Lucky Charms and Cocoa Pops – mixed, of course, because what sinfully boring person eats cereal the way it was intended to be eaten?

It takes me a second to realize it, but as I catch her staring at me out of my peripherals, I turn slowly and ask, with my mouth full, "What?"

"I think I _broke_ you." She tells me, and there's something deadly serious in her eyes.

I swallow the cereal in my mouth – more as a reflex, as the severity of her expression rubs off on me. "How so?"

"_How_?" She raises her eyebrows and grins. "You're Emily Prentiss: the most flawlessly elegant person I know. Your apartment and your appearance is _immaculate_. And yet you're sat on the counter-top, with pancake batter on your clothes, eating Lucky Charms mixed with Cocoa Pops. And just an hour ago you didn't blink when I caused a disaster in your kitchen. And last night you were happy for me to…" She pauses, smirks and blushes as her eyes flick implicatively to the counter-top we're sat upon, and then clears her throat – all the explanation needed really.

"I always mix my cereal." I reply coolly, my mouth once again full of said cereal – something that I can't help but feel only strengthens her point. I swallow, chuckling. "There are many things you don't know about me, JJ."

"I'm certain of it." She smiles softly. "And I look forward to learning those things."

She says that and I think I believe it. She says that and I realize I _am_ a book to her. And who wants to read a story that is cover-to-cover predictable? Apparently not her. She has no expectations of what she'll find between the pages; she just wants to find those things. I was certain once that being that readable to a person meant losing pieces of myself. Now I realize that those pieces of me don't just vanish simply because she finds them. They're still mine; they're just hers too. And I think I could be okay with that.

As I redirect my gaze to the cereal in my bowl, smiling like a fool, I take comfort from the fact that she has no idea of the promises I just made to her. She _is_ going to see all of me, because I think I actually want her to… Because, just like Will reminded me last night, she's a rare caliber of human-being.

She holds an untainted view of the world despite that world's effort to taint her views – she will forever hold an untainted view of me, despite what may come to taint that view. I know that, like I've never known it before. She makes me believe that, and more importantly, she makes me consider that maybe – _maybe_ – those failed past relationships of mine are actually something to be grateful for. Because look at what I have now because they didn't want to weather the storms in order to see the rainbows…

So she _does_ get it all, because she's not looking for a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, but rather an understanding of how those rainbows ever made it to fruition.

Of course, while Will's words lead me to some kind of reconciliation with my fears, they also provoke one huge question that I seemingly forgot in our little question-answer session. "Wait…" I look back to her. "What did you tell Will last night?"

She pauses mid-chew, finishes and then looks to me slowly. "You really want to know? It might be too early in our…" She chews at her lip, and then looks back to me. "Do you really want to know?"

"I do, JJ." I nod, ensuring she can see in my eyes that I'm sincere.

"Well, I didn't give him any names, of course but… I told him that I'd thought it was time to move on, but that I realized I can't move on until I find closure with the person who's occupied my heart for the past three years." She mindlessly pokes at her cereal with her spoon, and I struggle to understand why she's having so much trouble telling me something she basically already explained. Maybe I'm missing the point. "And I told him I can't find that closure until I allow myself to chance the possibility that maybe she isn't supposed to be there at all, that maybe she doesn't even know she is..."

She stops, but her lips remain parted, and she seems to lose herself for a moment. Her eyes are fixed on nothing, narrowed like she's trying to see clearly, and now, her lips keep moving like she's attempting to force herself to speak. And then, with a sudden wind of confidence, she places her bowl behind her and shifts on the counter so that she's fully facing me.

"Meaning: until I stop avoiding the fact that I can't stop thinking about my colleague. Until I can tell her that, to me, she's beautiful, and every time I'm doing something mundane, I find myself wishing she was doing it with me." She pauses briefly, but doesn't look away. "That I could listen to her talk for hours, and it wouldn't even matter what she was saying, because no matter what she says it's nothing less than phonic perfection. That her mind fascinates me, to the point where I spend sleepless nights trying to figure out what lurks behind those reinforced walls of hers, and what prompted their creation." Her voice is calm now, her eyes sparkling, her lips almost smiling. "That I'm very certain I, somewhere along the way, fell in love with her and that mind of hers. And that I don't regret that, or ever plan to hurt her with it."

She loves me… Is _in love_ with me. Jennifer Jareau is in love with me. I realize it was, in so many ways, implied, but hearing those words out loud is a whole different matter. And though I'm certain I look nothing other than stunned right now, I'm not too tough to admit that inside I'm grinning like a teenage girl who just got asked to prom by that _totally_ cute guy.

"…You should tell her that." I reply quietly, utterly amazed that in just two days, two separate people have managed to go head-to-head with that monster we call love – and that I think I'm about to become the third. Seemingly by instinct alone, I hop down off of the counter and slip myself between her legs. "You should tell her all of that."

"You think she'll be receptive?" She smiles as she slides her hands over my shoulders, beneath the curtain of my hair, and rests her forehead to mine. "You don't think she'd run? Even with what season it is?"

"I don't think she'd run." I reply honestly, a small grin pulling at my lips. "No matter what season it is." I kiss her neck, all the way to her ear and lower my voice to a whisper. "I think she'd tell you that, somewhere along the way, she fell in love with you and your compassion, and your goofy streak, and the way you bite your lip…" I punctuate that by kissing the very lip that she's chewing on. "And the way you're so honest, even when it might leave your heart in tatters. And then she'd tell you that she's sorry, for allowing her past to dictate her future, for allowing that to leave you in the same conflicted place she's found herself more times than she cares to remember."

At first, she simply smiles. And then she grins, and then she looks away with a breathy laugh – pretty much physically representing the degrees of astonishment that I myself feel for the fact that I actually just offered real words, and reals words that don't result in some defensive-style joke. "She'd say all that?"

"Yeah…" I nod. "Yeah, she would." My eyes, regrettably, catch the clock. "And then she'd tell you that we have one hour until we're expected at Hotch's dinner table."

"Mmm…" She groans, her hands shifting to fist the front of my shirt - a grip that she then utilizes to pull me flush against her. "Ten more minutes. I'm sure he'll understand."

**CM-CM-CM**

He didn't understand.

We're twenty minutes late, and he's staring at us like we just broke firm orders. Honestly, if it wasn't for the reindeer-littered apron he's donning, I'd be a little concerned about the safety of our careers.

"Nice apron." JJ smirks, and I'm stuck somewhere between wanting to high-five her and panicking about our fate – the outcome of which she certainly _isn't_ helping.

But the way his mouth twitches into a Hotch-style smile eases me, and the sugared-up seven year old that zooms by the door with a Lego creation in his hands and airplane sounds on his lips relaxes me entirely.

"It's good that no lives depended on this." He remarks as he turns and walks through to the living room with us in tow, and then leaves us to head back to the kitchen where Rossi is yelling at him about poorly-handled potatoes and babysitting Brussels sprouts.

"Nice of you to join us." Morgan berates playfully, then presses a kiss to my head. "Merry Christmas, princess."

_Yeah_, I smile. _Yeah, it is_.

"Where _were_ you guys?" Garcia throws out her palms, and then narrows her eyes in a way that unsettles me. "And why did you arrive together? You live in opposite directions."

"Actually…" I begin the lie. "I was with the ambassador. She lives closer to JJ than I so we rode together."

"Now I _know_ that's a lie." Garcia replies, her sharply raised eyebrow very much supporting her statement. "You never see the ambassador, especially on a holiday that she probably _should_ make the effort for."

"Hm…" Morgan murmurs, circling JJ and I like we're artefacts in a museum.

He's been eyeing us through Garcia's tirade, profiling us no doubt, and apparently he's pretty amused with his findings. I'm sure the fact that he was privy to more than JJ and I combined only helped him to reach those findings. I'll broach that little issue with him later.

"I don't think she's going to answer you truthfully, or even confirm if you guess." He stops, facing us, and folds his arms across his chest before looking to Garcia. "I think that whatever reason she has for arriving with JJ is far too important." His eyes narrow as he leans in close to JJ - causing her to pull back with raised eyebrows and an uncertain smile - before once again turning back to Garcia. "And you ain't getting nothing out of blondie either, I'm pretty certain for the same reasons."

"Oh." Garcia's eyes widen suddenly- "Oh my _god_." –and, as Hotch chooses that _perfect_ moment to wander into the room, she slaps both hands over her mouth. Not fucking subtle at all.

I'd felt oddly comfortable with Garcia and Morgan profiling us and inevitably coming to the conclusions that they did, but Hotch is a whole different matter. There's a long pause where he's staring at us like a parent, his eyes mostly lingering on Garcia whose hands are still clamped over her mouth to silence the news I know she's just _bursting_ to yell from the rooftops. He's definitely sought out the weak link in the chain. Now, what is he going to do with it?

"…I don't want to know." He finally speaks, his face as unreadable as ever. "Dinner is ready."

An apology emerges in Garcia's eyes as Hotch walks away, and she's quick on my tail as we follow him down the hall. "I can't believe the curse has been _broken_! It's like a _fairytale_!" There's a brief break in her joy where she tosses a quick scowl to JJ and warns, "It _better_ be broken."

"_Wait_." I stop briskly, causing Garcia to stumble a little, and look to Morgan – like it's _his_ fault everyone seemingly knows my issues. I think I can be forgiven for feeling a little animosity towards him though – he is, after all, helping JJ to get over me. "Is there not even _one_ of you that I managed to fool?"

"Fool about what?" Reid questions quietly and I can't help but smirk.

"Thanks, Reid." I can tell he has no clue what I'm thanking him for – or just why that adds to the irony of me being thankful towards him in the first place.

When we reach the dining room, I have to resist the urge to sit beside JJ – that isn't the spot I typically assume at this time of year, and I doubt the boat needs rocking anymore. Thankfully, if the fancy little name cards are anything to go by, we apparently have allocated spots this year. When, however, she sits directly opposite me and quirks her eyebrows suggestively, I realize I probably would have been far safer sitting _beside_ her. This dinner is going to be long and _torturous_.

My attention is snapped from that mischievous blonde of mine when Garcia - with a string of Garcia-style profanities that I'm almost certain are aimed at Rossi - heads to the kitchen. He's the host, despite it being Hotch's house, and I strain to hear what got her so worked up. But the now-shoeless foot that oh-so discreetly settles itself between my thighs against my seat is distracting, and as Morgan pulls up a chair beside me, I welcome the excuse to not directly engage or encourage the clearly mature woman opposite me. Perhaps if she doesn't get the attention she's seeking, she'll get bored and move on to something else.

I'm still uncertain what I feel on the topic of Morgan, but Garcia seems downright pissed off, and I can't help but feel that if she'd been proposed to last night, there'd be absolutely nothing on the planet capable of pissing her off. "Care to explain why Garcia's hyperactivity levels are more mad-at-the-world than sickeningly-loved-up?"

His shoulders slump enough to be telling, but subtle enough to not draw attention from the people around us. "Someone beat me to it."

"Kevin?" I jump the gun, my eyes wide.

"Nah." He shakes his head and leans back in his chair, and when he's happy that everyone else around the table is occupied, he leans a little closer and continues. "Some other guy in the restaurant proposed to his girl, and I didn't want her to think I'd only done it because of that."

"Oh, honey. She isn't going to think that." I reassure, and then realize that, actually, I was probably correct with my earlier query. Garcia has been proposed to before and declined… is that what he's worried about?

As that question springs to mind, Garcia returns, a pan of something in her oven-mitt covered hands and clearly unhappy words on her lips. They're again directed at Rossi, that much is obvious, but that's exactly where the obvious part ends. She's speaking in Italian, as is he, and _I_ speak Italian… but apparently not Garcia's version of Italian.

"Something wrong?" I look to her, and slyly reach beneath the table to cease the journey of that foot that seems intent on causing trouble. Apparently ignoring her only provokes her – I'll make a note of that.

"What a brilliant question, _Emily Prentiss_." Her gaze fixes on me as she, with _probably_ more force than necessary, places the pan she was holding to the table. Something though, in that _perfectly_ enunciated use of my name, tells me that pan is merely a substitute for me. What did _I_ do?

With that, Rossi emerges from the kitchen. "She's mad because I told her you'd decided we should have a seating plan this year." He explains, then joins Garcia in fixing his eyes on me. There's a message in his somewhat-psychotic stare, I can tell, and I narrow my eyes as I try to decode it. I don't think I need to say it but… I had jack shit to do with a pre-devised seating plan.

"Yeah," Garcia scoffs, "which makes absolutely no sense, and the arrangement you chose makes even less sense because why wouldn't you seat yourself next to J-" She stops short of outing JJ and I and slumps to her allocated seat – her allocated seat that means she's on Morgan's left instead of his right. His right where _I'm_ seated, which I'm sure doesn't help matters.

I know without being told that her anger is more directed at the fact that she's been _told_ where to sit than that she can't sit on a specific side of her beau. I'm about ready to stand and tell her that if she really cares all that much, she can have my spot, but the way Morgan, seemingly sensing this, nudges my leg, tells me there's something more to this than an effort to evoke the wrath of Penelope Garcia while simultaneously throwing me under the bus.

I'd defend myself if I wasn't so utterly lost as to why, 1: we're sitting in specific spots and, 2: I've become the designated bad guy.

Realizing I'm out of my depths, I avert my gaze, and take comfort from my drink and the foot that has settled instead for leisurely running up and down my ankle. Something tells me I'm far safer playing with _that_ fire than any I can see in PG's eyes right now.

Once everyone is seated, Hotch is the first to begin what has become our yearly tradition, and pulls his Christmas Cracker with Jack. Hotch wins but, of course, let's Jack keep the prize – a calculator that, I'm very certain, won't remain in working order beyond this meal. Jack pulls his with JJ, and JJ with Rossi, and Rossi with Reid, and Reid with me, and me with Morgan, until the table is littered with cheap prizes and every fully grown FBI agent sat around it is wearing a colourful, paper crown. We look _dashing_, even if I do say so myself, and, though it's nothing, I can't help but smile.

Perhaps it's the new way in which my Christmas began this year, or perhaps it's because there are no other people on the planet that mean more to me than the seven sat around this table… but I think I just found my Christmas Spirit. It's in the way that Jack, the typical messy boy that he is, has already spilt food down his shirt; and the way that Reid has somehow, somehow, managed to locate in his mind and rattle off every factoid he knows about Christmas Crackers; and the way that JJ… beautiful JJ, has a similar carefree glint in her eyes to the one I found last night.

It's in the way that, right beside me where, just five minutes ago, all hell was breaking loose… a Christmas miracle happens. With a sharp snap, and a thud of platinum meeting oak, Garcia, for the first time since I've known her, produces nothing but _silence_. The whole table, I now realize, is silent. _Including_ Morgan.

Something tells me his role wasn't a silent one at this point in the execution of his apparently-altered master plan, and I not-so subtly remind him with a not-so subtle nudge to his arm. "Big heart. Voluptuous booty. Mixed race babies."

He's look to me, terrified, and I nod my encouragement. Clearing his throat – and in the process apparently finding his courage – he takes the ring from the table and, while Garcia looks on astonished, gets on bended knee in front of her.

"Penelope…" He swallows, and then takes a steadying breath. When something in his eyes changes, his tension vanishes like magic. "Ya know, people think I'm this player who is unable to foresee anything more long term than one night, and they're probably not wrong. But that's because I really don't foresee anything long-term… except with you. I look at you and I see my future. You _are_ my future. There is not one other person on this planet that I want to wake up to every morning, and fall asleep with every night. You are my soul mate Penelope Garcia, and I know you've been asked this question before but…" He falters, takes a further steadying breath, and finally… "Will you marry me?"

There's this moment, this excruciating moment where the silence that, just minutes ago, spoke of something life-changing, now, instead, becomes suffocating, devastating. For a split second, I'm genuinely fearful for him that he's going to hear a dreaded _no_…

And then Garcia smiles, and the whole world changes – for everyone at the table, I can tell.

Like everything is compelling her to do so, she presses both hands to his cheeks and pulls him against her. She doesn't utter an array of colorful Garcia-speak, she doesn't squeal or clap her hands excitedly and – more importantly – she doesn't look like she's about to run for the hills. She simply, with him held against her, says, "Yes."

There's a raucous of cheers and applause while the new lovebirds return to their old selves and make out at the end of the table; and I, with a smile on my lips, look to my very own lovebird to find _her_ beautiful smile directed at me.

I don't think I'm the marrying type but… I wouldn't mind waking up to that smile every morning and falling asleep to it every night either.

**CM-CM-CM**

Once dinner is over and we drag our twenty-pounds-heavier selves out of the dining room, Morgan corners me in the kitchen – and something tells me it has nothing to do with him and Rossi allowing me to be the scapegoat.

I'd been expecting it, of course, but now that it's happening, I feel a little more uncomfortable than I'd anticipated – strangely, more uncomfortable than I did with that other not-so inconsequential conversation I had today. Perhaps because, in a lot of ways, there's more riding on this. Not because JJ means any less to me than him, but because the bonds – and thus, the rules of play - between him and I were official, and between her and I, they were not. Because of that, there is no fresh start beyond any possible deceit in this context, and if I find that he really was playing me in some way, I just don't know how I forgive and forget.

The guilty look in his eyes tells me he knows that. I lean back against the kitchen counter and wait for him to say whatever he needs to, any assumptions or expectations of him non-existent because I owe him that much. I can't let the first thing I jump to be that which paints him in an instantly distrustful light – because he's Morgan, and if I know him like I think I do, he had a _very_ good reason for keeping us both in the dark.

Closing the door to give us a little more privacy, he runs his hand over his head and then nods, like he's just realized his methods – however purely motivated – probably weren't the best route. "Do you remember last summer?" He begins. "You and I went to Atlantic City and you finally showed me exactly what a sin-to-win weekend is?"

I quirk my eyebrow – where could he possibly be going with this? "Yes, I remember. I also remember your eyes bulging out of their sockets and feeling a distinct sense of pride over the fact that I'd taught Derek Morgan something new."

He laughs fully, nodding. "Yeah. Yeah you did." After a moment, he licks his lips and his expression changes to something a little more serious. "I watched you that weekend Emily, working every woman you came into contact with like they were putty in your hands. You were in your element. So confident. So carefree." He pauses for a moment and then says, "It made me think of me."

Well I don't think I was expecting that. Apparently I'm the female Derek Morgan – who knew? He's not wrong though… It's been many years since I called him an alley cat for his ways with women, and even then I don't think I meant it. I think I understood it. There's something so powerful about being able to have that effect on a person – something _safe_. As long as you're the one working that voodoo, it can't be worked on you; and there's just so much about what we do – and what has personally affected each of our lives – that leaves us all needing that safety net in some way.

That said, I think I'm now a little more lost as to where he's going with this. "Do you have a point, Derek?"

"Yes." He nods. "That whole other side of you I was certain you had, was the _me_ side. The side that takes so much comfort from the whole no-strings concept, that you're practically unable to even consider that there's something else _worth_ considering. I realized it that weekend, which is why I knew that until you were able to see for yourself that there's something better than marking off notches in your bedpost, that something would never _be_ better."

He watches me for a moment, that same compassion in his eyes that I've always seen in him, and even though I don't quite understand his point yet, I already know there was never any malicious intent behind his actions. The beautiful thing about Derek Morgan is that if he offers you his loyalty, you have it for a lifetime – even if that loyalty means being _dis_loyal to you in some way.

"I meant what I said to Garcia, Emily…" He continues. "Until I met her, I couldn't foresee long-term. It didn't exist. I didn't understand it. _JJ_ is your Garcia, but you weren't ready for her to be. So I kept my mouth shut and became the go-to therapist."

"_Sponsor_." I correct him.

"Heh…" He laughs. "I guess you could call it that. Though… if I were a true sponsor, I would have probably been a little happier when it seemed that she was getting over you." I look to him and he clarifies. "The date with Will. I thought that meant you guys had reached a point of no return – it was relieving to find that I was wrong, even if you did both get there in a totally backwards manner."

"You could have done something _before_ it got to that point, Derek."

"Come on, Em…" He looks to me. "Are you seriously telling me that you and JJ didn't see anything between Garcia and I before we realized and acknowledged it?" I open my mouth, but have nothing to offer, and he sees it. "Exactly. Sometimes it's not our place to meddle. Sometimes all we can do is be there to listen, and that's what I was for JJ. Just like I tried to be for you, but – I don't know if you've noticed - _she's_ a little more willing to discuss her feelings than you are."

And just like that, as a small, breathy laugh slips through my attempts at being stubborn, I lose any sense of anger. Like I said… I think I lost my ability to be outraged toward anything last night. Besides, he's not wrong. I can't really say that I believe in fate – that concept is just a little too terrifying for someone with control issues – but it is true that if I took this very scenario and moved it two or three years back in my timeline, it would have played out a lot differently. Because just like he so accurately observed: I wasn't ready for this.

It doesn't erase the fact that it isn't his place to decide what I am and am not ready for, but then I never was very good at relying on outside sources to rescue me. Those outside sources inevitably disappear… I hope _he_ never disappears.

Taking a sip of my drink, I point to him and say, "Don't go thinking you get to use this as an example next time you go off on a _women are so complicated_ tirade."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He throws out his hands, grinning that infamous Morgan grin; and then he turns his hands palm-up and raises his eyebrows. "Can I get a little love now?"

God, he's about as adorable as she is. For someone who needs intense control in their life, I sure do surround myself with an abundance of people capable of wrapping me around their little finger. As I meld into his chest, I find myself clutching a little tighter than usual. "_Thank you_."

"For what?"

"Showing me what friendship really is." I can't see him, but I know he's shooting me that look he does when I randomly deviate from my typical guarded persona and throw something profound into general conversation.

He knows I won't elaborate, but I hope he also knows that what I said was genuine: it's difficult to form strong bonds with people when you move around as much as I have in my lifetime, and it's even harder to do that when you're pretending to be someone you're not. Hopefully my days of doing that are behind me.

When the door to our left opens, I don't move from Morgan's embrace but I do smile. Now _there's_ the Garcia I'd expected to see today. I can't read auras, but if I could, I'm sure hers is all shades of the rainbow right now. She looks so elated and just… well, she looks so Garcia-on-steroids. When she scowls playfully – likely at the fact that I'm getting pretty damn cozy with her fiancé – I shift a little and hold out my arm as an indication for her to join us.

Add group-hugging in the kitchen to the list of things I didn't expect to be doing today. The only thing that could make this better is if that beautiful blonde of mine appeared just like Garcia did, but if the raucous elsewhere in the house is anything to go by, she's busy being that oh-so mature FBI agent that I love so much. I dread to think what she's up to, but I swear I just heard her making child-like gun sounds.

"Is there any reason for this random display of affection?" Garcia asks, her face smooshed against Morgan's chest. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm totally down but… What did he do that you had to give him one of your _all is forgiven_ hugs?"

I chuckle to myself – oh, she is perfect for him. "Nothing much." I reply, smirking. "He just became JJ's _sponsor_ in getting over me."

With that, and without one second of hesitation, she pulls back and swats Morgan's chest. He whines instantly, rubbing at the apparently pained area, and I do nothing to hide my amusement. I hadn't been expecting that reaction from her, but I'd be lying if I said I felt even one iota of guilt. I think he at least deserved that a _tiny_ bit.

"Emily and JJ are delicate flowers, and you can't go messing with that with all your fancy good intentions!"

Morgan and I exchange looks, and then snicker in a way that earns us both a scowl from Garcia.

"Glass houses, Garcia." I pat her shoulder and head to join the rest of the gang. "Glass houses."

On my way into the living room, I'm almost knocked off my feet by a sugared-up seven year old and a fully-grown FBI agent who zoom by with a couple of hasty _sorry_'s on their lips and Nerf guns in their hands – a Christmas gift I'm sure Hotch is now regretting. I guess that explains the sound-effects.

I give them ten minutes before something gets broken and they find themselves in the crosshairs of our very own mother hen. But as JJ comes storming through the living room a second time with a giggling Jack behind her, and Garcia finds herself directly in their path, I realize I was a little too generous with my timeframe. Play time is over.

Pouting, Jack and JJ hand over the guns and drop to the floor to join Reid – who, if I'm not mistaken, is in the process of building a remarkably realistic Santa's grotto from Legos. I know he wishes he could spend Christmas with his mother. I know he wishes literal distance was the only reason he can't. I hope he knows that he'll never have to spend this holiday alone.

Sinking to the couch, my eyes drift to the patriarchs of our little group, slumped into two one-seaters in the corner of the room, their paper-crowns still haphazardly perched upon their heads. It'll be mere minutes before they fall victim to their food-coma, I know. Elsewhere in the room, Garcia slips a movie – Love Actually, I think – into Hotch's bluray player and snuggles into Morgan's side on the loveseat to my left.

Love, love, love… Isn't that what it's all about anyway?

Our group is so much smaller this year… I guess we've all loved and lost in some way, but I hope we never lose this. I should have noticed it in years past, but for the first time I realize that _this_ is what Christmas should be. For the first time I realize that I missed something in my younger years. _This_ is my family. _This_ is that something that can't be touched or explained that JJ mentioned last night.

And with that thought, I pull my phone from my pocket and lay back across the couch. It takes me a moment to remember the exact words, but when I type them into Google and pull up the first hit – a YouTube video – the familiar sound of a piano leaves me shaking my head at myself. _Of course_ she got the words from that song.

My eyes naturally drift to hers to find that she's already smiling at me. And it's with that song playing as the backing track, and with her smile anchoring me to the moment, that I find myself in the very same sentimental place that I go out of my way to avoid every year at this time. The feeling is intense, and it should scare me but how could it? How could it when, in every direction, I have an angel stronger than any demons I've ever known.

They stand no chance against this little army of mine. They stand no chance against her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **I'm not sure how many countries Emily lived in growing up, but for the sake of this chapter we're going to pretend it's five. Also, AJ Cook must have gone and gotten 'Hollywood teeth' in recent years because I swear that, in earlier seasons, they really were how I describe them in this chapter. Google Images is making me question this theory, but we're just going to pretend I'm right, okay? ;)

**Author's Note 2: **This is the final chapter, and I've loved every minute of writing for you guys – I forgot how encouraging you all are. Thank you for joining me on this "ride", and I hope the final installment meets any expectations you may have. :)

Enjoy! xo

* * *

**Chapter Six: Part II:**

Just two hours ago, in this same spot, I'd found myself oddly elated for this holiday. Now, staring at the apocalypse that my colleagues and family have designated _me_ to clean up, I'm beginning to find a subtle hint of Christmas hatred again.

According to them, Hotch and Rossi are exempt since they made dinner; Morgan and Garcia are too – mostly because they've been glued to each other's side since the proposal; Reid is teaching Jack how write inappropriate words on a calculator; and JJ, when it was mentioned, _coincidently_ disappeared to the bathroom. Which left me. I somewhat felt the need to remind them of the bus they threw me under earlier and the way I took it like a champ, but I let it lie and dutifully got to work.

Brushing the remnants of Christmas Crackers off of the table and into a trash can, I can't help but smile when I come to Garcia's – and I can't bring myself to throw it out either. Apparently that suddenly-present sentimental streak of mine got a little out of control, because, really, they're just torn pieces of metallic paper and yet I'm holding them on such a high pedestal that they just escaped death row. Or, rather, a landfill. Jesus, what the hell has she done to me?

As I pick up the plates that I've neatly stacked into two piles of four, that very she that – I can't deny – really did break me, pokes her head around the door. "Did you know that proposal was coming?"

"Oh, _that?_ Of course." I wink. "Well, actually…" I chuckle. "I _did_… Until the part where I suddenly had no clue as to why I was in the crosshairs of, arguably, the most terrifying woman on the planet. Morgan was planning to do it last night, and seemingly changed his plan without telling me."

Apparently neither Morgan nor Rossi realized Garcia would freak out so much, and according to Rossi, the reason he immediately blamed me was because I'm Morgan's best friend, the only other person who knew about the proposal, and thus the only one in the room who would quietly take responsibility and not draw attention to it. That's a whole lot of logical thinking he conducted in the heat of the moment – something tells me he just wanted to get back at me for winning that bet he and I had. The reward for which I still haven't received…

"Well I don't know what he had planned before…" JJ grins. "But that was _perfect_."

"Yeah." I smile. "Yeah, it was."

And in that moment, I suddenly realize he wasn't afraid of rejection; he simply got a little more creative. He didn't want to be just another guy proposing in a restaurant. Similarly, he didn't want her to be just another woman being proposed to in a restaurant, surrounded by strangers.

Snapping from my thoughts, I look to JJ with a raised eyebrow- "That was quite the stealthy little escape, Jareau." -and lift the plates higher in my hands to indicate my point.

"I like you in that shirt…" She smirks in digression, and stalks towards me in a manner that I know isn't going to be conducive to cleaning up the dinner table. I guess that was a pretty stealthy escape too.

I sigh, my eyes fixed on her lips. "Don't smirk at me like that."

"Like what?" She asks as she steps in front of me, but doesn't alter her smile any.

"Like you're thinking inappropriate things."

Of all the things that captivate me about her, her teeth are one of them. Literally, they're fragments of calcified tissue that's sole purpose is to make the eating process easier – in my mind, they're one more thing in a pile of many that set her apart from the rest. They're not Hollywood teeth, which is to say they're not conventionally perfect, but that's exactly what makes them so perfect. It, bizarrely, fascinates me how the front two sit a fraction back from the rest, and how the end effect of a smile is dependent solely on how she wraps her lips around them. Right now, she's not choosing to wrap her lips around them at all, but has rather reversed the equation and is instead clamping them down around her lips.

Instead of ruling it _Kryptonite #2_, I finally realize and fully accept that she, as a whole, is my kryptonite.

"Well…" She leans into me. "Perhaps I'm _not_ thinking appropriate things."

And without preamble, I capture her lips and back her against the table - something made considerably difficult when I'm precariously balancing four plates in both hands. "If I drop these," I whisper against her lips, "Hotch is going to be pretty pissed."

"Oh, we wouldn't want that." She grins cheekily and, instead of moving away, takes the plates from my hands and places them to the table behind her. Not exactly what I meant, but it works.

With my hands now free, I push her up onto the exact spot where Rossi, not two hours ago, was eating his Christmas dinner, and she giggles at the apparently unexpected move. "What's the matter? You suddenly developed a conscience?" She doesn't respond verbally. Instead, she slips her hands beneath my shirt to my hips and I gasp instantly. "_Why_ are your hands so cold?"

"Bad circulation." She shrugs, an air of petulance about her. "But…" She slides her palms up stomach, which tenses, and dips her fingers beneath my bra and places them directly against my nipples. "These guys don't seem to mind."

They don't. Fuck, they don't mind at all.

"Ya know, for a straight girl," I breathe, flicking my heavy-lidded gaze down to her hands, "you seem to really enjoy touching women."

A bark of laughter bursts from her lips. "Did you _really_ think I was straight?"

No. In hindsight, no, I didn't. But… "Sometimes it's difficult to tell the difference between hope and instinct."

Her eyes soften, her lips pull into a gentle smile. "It's just never really been a thing for me, Em. I fall for the person – male or female. Are you seriously telling me you've never been with a guy?"

I tense instantly – that devil I once knew bursting through my mind in a moment that he does not belong – and she senses it.

"That's not a conversation for right now, is it?" She asks, her eyes soothing, and yet her thumbs brush once over my nipples, effectively pulling a smirk from me and redirecting us back to less complicated territory.

I love her for that.

Pressing her lips to mine, her hands slide more confidently beneath my bra. As she moves her fingers in a deliciously teasing manner, my ability to kiss diminishes and my mouth remains slack against hers. It's so inappropriate but so – _so_ – good…

That is until she rips those hands out from beneath my shirt and shoves me away without any kind of gentility.

Her eyes are wide, guilty, and I, with a distinct sense of caution and, somehow, an already certain idea of what caused such a look, follow her gaze... Follow it directly to Hotch who is stood by the door like he's frozen in time. _Fuck_.

Our demeanor naturally dons an exaggerated casualness that we're apparently hoping is enough to fool the leader of our team of _body language_ experts, and he just stares. We're so screwed.

After almost a full minute of silent torment, his unreadable eyes shift from me to JJ, and then back to me; and I'm genuinely uncertain which way this is going to go. We're either about to get the not-angry-just-disappointed speech, or he's deliberating which one of us to fire.

"…I'm going to pretend I didn't see this." He finally says. "And then in three months' time, if this is more than a fling, you're going to come to me and tell me that you're serious about each other. Do _not_ let this interfere with your ability to do your job."

And then, just like that, he turns to leave, and I still daren't move. But when he stops at the threshold and turns back with an uncharacteristic smirk that I _fully_ put down to the two glasses of wine he's consumed tonight-

"Am I about to go outside and find Rossi and Reid exercising their _right_ to impropriety?"

-my whole body relaxes like I'm playing Musical Statues and the song just started again. It's as wondrous as seeing a UFO whenever Hotch expresses some kind of emotion, but he really needs to slow down the frequency at which he's expressing those emotions tonight – I'm struggling to keep up.

"I don't know, Sir." I grimace. "But if you do, I don't want to know about it."

"Deal." He's grinning now, and his eyes linger – is that approvingly? – on JJ and I, before he finally turns on his heel and closes the door behind him.

"Oh, _Jesus_." I place a hand against my rapidly beating heart and turn back to a clearly unnerved JJ.

"Did our boss really just give us a three month trial period?" She's staring at the door through which said boss just left, dumbfounded. "Did that really just happen?"

I'm a little more concerned about the fact that our boss just watched me reach second base with a co-worker than the apparent trial period but… "I think so." Apparently I'm not too concerned though, because when astonished blue shifts from the door to me, I step forward and use a gentle grip on her waist to nudge her back towards the table again. "We probably shouldn't let him down, huh?"

"Oh no." She grins mischievously, lacing her arms around my neck - seemingly no longer bothered about Arron Hotchner. "That would be _bad_."

And it would be bad. Honestly, I hadn't truly considered that not-so small detail in this whirlwind of a holiday romance, but now that it's out there, I'm more than mildly concerned about where this will end up… It doesn't leave me concerned for my _job_, it leaves me curious and petrified as to whether there will be anything to tell him in three months' time, and, if there isn't, where that will leave JJ and I on the relationship spectrum. Will we be one of the few couples able to sustain a successful friendship after being intimate? Or will we be another cliché?

"Where did you go?"

She's whispering against my lips and soothing her fingers over my neck, telling me without words that any fears in my mind are unwarranted, but I find the courage and look to her with a question regardless. After the debacle I learned of back in my apartment this afternoon I, somehow, can't bring myself to withhold my feelings from her anymore – apparently that does more damage than giving them away freely. "How close did I come to totally losing the chance I never even knew I had with you?"

She smiles, small but sincere. "I think I'm supposed to say we were dangerously close to the point of no return, but that would be a lie. Because if the past three years have told me anything, it's that that point doesn't exist." Her eyes turn serious. "You could have pushed for three more years, and you'd still be the first person I search for when I open my eyes each morning."

I have no words, but I'm not sure I'm supposed to. Hers are beautiful enough. I know – I've learnt – the danger of beautiful words. Few people realize it, when they're in the midst of getting their heart torn out, but there is _always_ a warning – a warning they should have heeded _before_ it got to the point of finding themselves on the wrong side of love. Beautiful words _are_ that warning. Sent direct from a Hollywood script, they're supposed to tell you that real life isn't a movie, that those words don't really belong there. And we don't listen. We never listen, because we want to believe in something better than our existence.

But, in that moment, I realize JJ's words aren't beautiful because they're what I want to believe; they're beautiful because they're honest. The reason I know that? Because, in so many ways, _I'm_ that wrong side of love – and she's the one taking the chance on _my_ beautiful words.

"I'm not looking to play games, Emily." She continues. "That, ironically, isn't what I'm about. And next year, when we're stood in this very same spot, I'm going to kiss you and tell you all of this again, because I know your insecurities and the reasons for your rules don't go away overnight."

"Next year?"

She nods, a small twinkle in her eyes, a small smile on her lips. "Next year. And the year after that. And the year after that…"

I raise my eyebrow- "What about the year after that?" -and she seemingly intensely deliberates the question.

"Umm… We'll see. Depends on your performance for the first few years. I'll make an informed decision when I have more to go on, but right now it's looking promising for you."

She nods enthusiastically with that final part, and I can't help but laugh. "Is that so?"

"_Very_." She leans into my ear. "Now… do you think we've done enough Christmas socializing? Because I'd really kind of like to reward you for your good performance right now – and _not_ on Hotch's dining room table."

Yes. Yes, we've done enough socializing.

**CM-CM-CM**

In a parked car, outside of a nondescript blue house, I'm living out that perfect cliché moment where you're certain nothing and no one could ever pull you away.

I think I forgot how much I enjoy the simple act of making out with another person, but the sentiment magnifies when that person is her. I realize this is the beginnings of a honeymoon period and that this rush of magical sensation is largely accredited to that, but _this_ is what I missed. Simple intimacy. It just doesn't exist in one-night stands, and the desire for it doesn't go away simply because you got extra good at convincing yourself it's redundant.

It isn't redundant. It is _all_ that matters. Because in those moments when the shadows of this job inevitably seep into my world, it isn't going to be the memories of quenching my most basic human needs that I grasp for in the dark; it's going to be making out in parked cars and eating cereal on counter-tops and playing footsie beneath crowded tables.

Not that I'll ever – _ever_ – admit that.

"Mmmm…" She murmurs against my lips. "I really need my mouth back if I'm going to leave this car."

"Really?" I ask, my mouth still smooshed against hers. "It's not detachable?"

She raises an eyebrow and pushes me away with a hand against my chest. "That is equal parts creepy and cheesy. I'm not sure I want to know what you'd do with my mouth if it _were_ detachable."

I shrug. "The mouth is no fun without a JJ attached to it anyway."

She opens said mouth to offer some playful retort, but the suddenly mortified expression that washes over her face tells me that what she winds up saying isn't what she was initially going for. "Oh sweet Jesus… It happened."

"Um… What happened?"

"_It_. We became Morgan and Garcia. Talking about detachable mouths and sharing cheesy and creepy banter." Her face scrunches up in a disgusted manner, before it drops with a sigh. "Well that's it then, we can't do this." She throws out her hands and turns to climb out of my car. "Oh well, it was nice while it lasted."

"Oh-oh… No, no, no." I chuckle, pulling her back and pressing my lips instantly to hers. "You broke the curse and now you have to deal with the consequences." I kiss her some more and, eventually, reluctantly, let her go. "Now go grab some clothes and do whatever it is you need to do oh-so badly so I can work on my report card for the three year mark."

"You're not coming in?"

"I have something I need to take care of." She looks at me skeptically but follows my directive nonetheless, and I wait until she's safely inside her house before I drive away.

**CM-CM-CM**

When she appears at my door a couple of hours later, she gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and then runs down my hall towards the living room just like she did last night – and just like last night, it's fucking adorable. The only difference, thankfully, is that it isn't warped with questions. Well, except one…

"You didn't learn your lesson last night? Why, Jareau, are you not wearing a _coat_?"

"I was trying to be sexy. I didn't wear an outfit that perfectly accentuates my _best_ assets just to then cover up with a coat." She argues with a shrug, and then notices the flaw in her logic. "And then, well, it was a _lot_ colder than I anticipated. So now you get the sexy… but you get the frozen kind of sexy."

"Which, _obviously_, is the best kind." And, fuck, she really does look sexy as hell...

"_Correct_ answer." She grins. "Wow, you really are working hard to give me good things to ponder at the three year point."

"Wait…" I hold up my finger and head towards the closet in my hall. "I have something else. There's no way you're going to trade me in for a better model after this."

"That's pretty confident talk there, Ms. Prentiss." She quirks an eyebrow as she abandons the fire in favor of whatever it is that I have. "I hope you can back it up."

"I guess that all depends on how truthful you were being when you told me how attached you are to this…" Reaching into the closet, I produce her coat, and smile contently as her face paints with pure elation. That, right there, was the reaction I was hoping for: a speechless communications liaison.

She flaps her hands – a gesture I'm certain she learnt from Garcia. A gesture that, ironically, I didn't once see Garcia conduct today. "They were open today?"

"Actually… no." I smile shyly, lowering my gaze. "No they weren't. It took seventeen phone calls to the owner and what I'm very certain is a huge IOU for tearing him away from his family on Christmas day."

I'm pretty certain I have a liquor license renewal or several expunged DUI's in my future, but that's fine… That's fine as long as I have this in my future too: two bright blue eyes looking at me like all of her Christmas wishes really did come true.

She places the coat on the stool behind her, but her eyes don't leave mine. Nor do they leave mine as she moves to stand between me and the kitchen island – the kitchen island on which I foolishly attempted to make her anything less than everything last night. And those eyes glisten with something incredible when she, with her hands gripped at the lip, pushes herself up onto granite and beckons me over.

I oblige, with far less hesitation than twenty-four hours ago, and far less detachment too. I don't want to be detached from this. I don't want to taint it with dumb rules, and I don't want to banish it until Spring. I want it now. I want it tomorrow…

I want her forever.

Reaching into her back pocket – with more than minor struggle and a few giggles at her own expense – she produces a somewhat sad-looking piece of mistletoe. Looking to it, she scrunches up her face. "Well… Perhaps I should have taken this out of my pocket _before_ I sat down."

"It's not so bad." I lie – it looks like it got into a fight with a steamroller. The steamroller won, and to celebrate its victory, it rolled over it one more time. "But it does beg the question of why you have mistletoe in your pocket anyway?"

"It's Christmas tradition. Just like pancakes and seeing Hotch smile." She grins, and then reduces her smile to something more sincere. "And since the pancake fiasco went so well, I figured I'd try again at helping you to build better Christmas memories. Because what's more Christmassy than…" She looks to the mistletoe in her hand and scrunches up her face for a second time. "_This_."

Chuckling, I take it from her and pull at a few of the leaves, attempting to resuscitate it but come up short. Clearly any effort on our part for Christmas tradition is never going to wind up traditional. "Well, perhaps it's like… poetic or something."

She quirks her eyebrow. "_Our love started off dead, just to grow alive_?"

I snicker and drop my forehead to her shoulder. "I hate to say it, Jayje. But I don't think it's coming back to life. Your butt made certain of that."

"Is that poetic too?" She murmurs against my hair, and I can tell she's smiling. "We had something that was still growing, something that could've flourished into something beautiful given the proper time and care… and I plucked it from its life source and killed it."

Parts of me want to ask what god-awful poetry she's been reading, but when I recognize that her smile gradually faded which each one of her words, I pull back and meet her eyes. So many truths are spoken in jest. "No, Jayje. It's not dead. It's not going to die. You didn't damage it… You didn't damage _me_. You didn't damage _us_."

"I hope not…" She responds quietly, appraising me. "Because I love the hell outta you, Emily Prentiss."

Not the most eloquent thing she's ever said to me, but I'll take it. "Come here." I say, pulling her into my arms.

She smells different now – like JJ rather than me, and the scent embeds itself into my memory, forever attached to a picture of her. I think I'll add this to those things that I'll grasp for in the dark. And when, after a moment, she abruptly straightens up and holds her lame effort at Christmas tradition above our heads, smiling at me expectantly, I find myself adding that to the pile too.

Something tells me that when she planned this, she expected it to be somewhat more romantic than me giggling against her lips. Apparently mistletoes kisses are a little _too_ traditional – and cheesy - for my tough exterior. I'd rather kiss her because the mood struck, not because a piece of foliage dictated that I should. Still, she lets my lack of cooperation slide and wraps her arms around my neck as she tosses the mistletoe aside.

Strangely, free of that obligation, my giggling ceases, and I kiss her like I kissed her in every single one of those dreams that slipped through my stubborn efforts to banish her. I kiss her like Morgan was right – like she's my forever, and like it's finally time for her to _be_ my forever. I kiss her like I love her, free of those chains that bind me to paralyzing uncertainty and stifling control.

She kisses me like she really does love the hell out of me.

"Ya know…" I pull back, just far enough to press my forehead to hers. "When I leased this place, I had no idea this spot would become so pivotal."

Shrugging, she justifies, "Well, it's the perfect height."

"The perfect height, huh?" I grin. "The perfect height for _what_, Jareau?"

She blushes – apparently she hadn't intended to imply what she did. "Ya know… sitting and stuff."

"Stuff…" I muse, my lips tracing the curve of her jaw all the way to her ear. "What kind of stuff?"

Her breathing alters as my hands slide just barely beneath the bottom of her shirt, and for a moment I'm certain she forgot she was asked a question. But when she pushes me back and slips from the counter, as confidently as she did last night, she takes my hand and turns for the stairs… All the response necessary.

As she leads me up my darkened staircase, I realize we've come full circle. But this isn't where the ride ends; this is where it begins. From this point, that circle becomes a single line that will guide us through the rest of our lives. A set road that will lead you to the end of time is, in so many ways, a terrifying thing; no room for error, no room for change, no room to dodge the obstacles that we'll surely meet on our journey.

But it's _JJ_ I'm walking it with: nothing about this journey is going to be conventional. This currently straight line is going to weave and meander and at some points become circular once more. It's going to be a ride like no other I've ever experienced – and I can't fucking wait.

With a smile on my lips for the adventure that awaits us, I grip her hand a little tighter - not as a silent reassurance to myself that she won't leave me walking that line alone, but as a reassurance to her that I won't let go of her hand. I won't, no matter what, because she's never let go of mine.

While love is a monster I know I can't defeat, it's also a monster that fascinates me… Even when I avoided it, I spent every second marveling in it. Its capabilities truly are astounding. Sure, it can weave webs so tangled that we'll never fully free ourselves from them; but it can also bust open shackles with a simple embrace, or kiss, or a two inch crack in a marble floor.

It is what ensures that a man who has lost love in the worst kind of way still holds a genuine smile for his son. It is what drives a player to quit the game. It is what inspires trust in eternity in someone who once fled from the prospect. It is what keeps a genius forever searching for ways to understand that which he could never fully understand. It is what carries a man through three divorces and ensures he sees the other side. It is what creates a family out of strangers.

It is that which travels thousands of miles, five countries, four languages, three counts of heartbreak and one count of erasing itself entirely… and somehow finds who it always was at the end. It is that which can be rejected for three years and still remain loyal.

I'm still no closer to knowing just what it is that makes one person different from another. No closer to knowing why the exact same thing can feel different with different people, or why something you don't typically care for becomes all you want to do with one person. I don't know why her lips feel different; or why her touch feels different; or why the warmth of her body feels different. I don't know why, with her inside me, I feel like the whole world is so - _so_ – small, but also vast and magnificent and at my fingertips.

I don't know _why_, but I think that's okay. Maybe we're just not supposed to know. Maybe the monster we call love isn't supposed to be profiled, but simply accepted as the one thing in this world that remains the same even as it takes on different forms – even as _we_ take on different forms. Maybe we're just meant to cherish the fact that it was bestowed upon us.

And when my very own love comes undone beneath my touch, offering me every inch of her without hesitation, and peers up at me with those beautiful blue eyes of hers, I make silent promises to never fear her as a monster again.

"What are your thoughts on New Year's Eve?" She asks, her voice still breathy and tremulous.

"I'd rather sleep through it."

"Well…" She grins, and shifts enough to meld into my chest. "I like the bed idea… Perhaps not the sleeping part."

"Oh, um, did I mention that I'm not fond of Mondays, either?" I smirk, pressing my lips to her hairline. "Or Tuesdays, or Wednesdays, or Thursdays. Not really partial to Fridays. Or Saturdays." Throwing my head back dramatically, I add, "Urgh, Sundays suck."

"_Yes_ they do."

That is the last thing she says to me, with the most intoxicating, candid, content chuckle, before she rolls onto her side and pulls my arm around her. And with my hand pressed to her bare tummy, with her snuggled into the contours of my body, with a new affection for Christmas, I fall asleep.

It would be ludicrous to suggest that my fears are alleviated overnight, because real-life fairytales don't work that way. They work by never allowing yourself to forget that what you hold _is_ a fairytale, and by remembering that, once upon a time, you were the villain of your own story. They work because a princess, the most beautiful princess you've ever known, never allows a day to pass without showing you, in some form, that you are the Prince Charming she always dreamed of. They work because that very same princess returns to you everything you once loved about yourself, and encourages those parts. They work, not because fears don't exist, but because something more powerful also exists.

And one year later, when I receive an unexpected phone call from a pretty blonde reminding me that it's "officially Christmas", I realize that all those differences I couldn't quite decode were within me. The difference is within _me_.

Love isn't a monster at all: fear is. And curses don't exist: fear does. And history isn't what will forever tie you to the past: fear will.

You can make the rules, and you can pretend that you don't love her, and you can probably even convince yourself enough of that to keep walking through life one day at a time… but what's the point? What's the point in the rules if they're just further giving you reason to make them? What's the point in pretending you don't want her when so much of you is constantly _aching_ for how much you miss her? And what's the point in walking through life one day at a time when, really, all you're doing is killing time?

I'd much rather kill time with her. And, thankfully, I'm blessed with that privilege – yes, even beyond that third year.

**-END-**


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